#the brief portion of the year that is not cold and dark and grey is ending and I cope less well with it every year

[upslapmeal]

least relatable thing on this website is people being happy that summer is over and autumn is starting, I have felt cold for three days straight now and my sadness is immeasurable

[atticuswritesstuff]

Kiss Me In the Rain Yandere!Chrollo x GN!Reader Oneshot

Summary: You find a glimmer of happiness in the pouring rain.

Warnings: sfw, forced captivity, very brief mentions of violence, injury, blood, and murder, unedited

Word count: 1.1k

You were jolted out of your sleep by the sound of a loud rumbling.

"Relax, darling," It took a moment to reorient yourself. You had fallen asleep using Chrollo's thigh as your pillow, his coat was covering a portion of your body. All the spiders glanced over at you, "It was just thunder."

You sat up, looking into his dark grey eyes, they were as soft as ever.

Just thunder?

The empty warehouse you had stayed in had several windows that allowed you to see out into the night air, you could see flashes here and there, but the thunder was few and far between.

"You ok?" Chrollo asked, caressing your cheek with his thumb as your eyes flitted around.

You nodded, you were ok.

You took his jacket off your body, giving it back to him so he wasn't just shirtless. Folding your legs under you, you stretched your arms upwards, the concrete slab you had been laying on was anything but comfortable, you managed to fall asleep anyway.

Chrollo watched you carefully, as he had been for the past two hours as you slept. Eyes alternating between his book and your sleeping figure. It was the first time you were allowed out of the house in several months, so you being alarmed by the sound of thunder wasn't concerning to him. They really had no intense weather where the two of you had lived.

"Do you need anything? Water?" Chrollo questioned.

You shook your head no.

He sighed, deciding to stop asking you questions when he knew you weren't going to speak anyway.

It had been like this for two months.

"Y/n?"

You were frozen in place, the sight of the man who just attempted to kidnap you dead on the floor made you scream. Even more so with his blood all over Chrollo's hands.

You couldn't tell if it was from your shock from your own knife wounds, or if it was how you just watched Chrollo kill him with no hesitation.

You couldn't form a single coherent sentence after that.

Chrollo observed over time as your behavior changed, you were defiant before, akin to a wild animal that could not be tamed. Now, you were docile, silent, helpless.

You stopped eating as much, never touching the breakfast or lunch he offered, only eating a handful of food at dinner, no dessert.

Sleep was few and far between, you often jolted out of bed thinking someone was coming back to hurt you, so naps like the one you had just taken were a blessing in disguise for both you and Chrollo.

You couldn't stand loud noises anymore. Likewise, anyone moving too fast made you flinch and cower, you thought they were going to grab you like the men did that night.

Chrollo also noticed how dependent you were becoming because of it. Despite him technically being your first captor, the men coming for you that night scared you so bad you stopped hating him. Whenever you were allowed, you draped yourself over him, enjoying the safety of his arms. You silently pleaded to be taken out of your basement room so you could sleep with him, something Chrollo had waited a year for. You made yourself as small as possible, curling up against him most nights, although you didn't sleep much.

Over time, you became weak, frail. Any muscle tone you had disappeared with your appetite and hypervigilance, you hadn't trained in about a year now, so you were just skin and bones.

Chrollo really couldn’t complain, he went from your kidnapper to your safety, that was all he could really ask for.

You hadn't paid attention to the mildness of the weather at home, but for some reason, the rain that started to drizzle outside was calling your name.

Standing up, you eyed the window, then the large open doorway on the other side of the warehouse. The smell of the night air was beckoning, rain like this wasn't common around Chrollo's luxurious house, but it reminded you of home.

You slowly started inching towards the door, surprised that you weren't ordered to come back.

In reality, Chrollo was watching your every move, ready to jump up to get you should anything happen. When you were only feet away from the door, Uvogin moved to get you, but Chrollo just held up a firm hand. Uvo sat back down, waiting, watching, as did the rest of the spiders.

It wasn't like you to go this far.

You stood in front of the doorway now, only inches away from the pouring rain. The wet grass, a vibrant green even in the night, beckoned to be touched. The night air smelled sweet.

You stuck your hands out in the rain, letting several droplets collect in your hand. The summer air had warmed the rain, creating a pleasant feeling on your skin.

The spiders were shocked but said nothing, most of them keeping trained eyes on you. Chrollo was the most surprised but allowed you to continue, it had been a while since you had gained any confidence in yourself.

You hesitated as you took your shoes and socks off, leaving them at the doorway and taking a step out into the rain.

You gazed up at the sky, a mixture of rain and night air hitting your face. You hummed happily, smiling as the rain-drenched your clothes and hair.

Chrollo smiled as he sauntered toward you, you were digging your toes into the wet grass, holding your palms upward so you could feel the rain.

He leaned against the warehouse door, observing you as you stood there, you were completely drenched, but that didn't matter to you.

"Darling," Chrollo beckoned, gaining your attention. He held his hand out to you, "You should come in, you're soaked. Wouldn't want to catch a cold now, would you?"

You frowned, looking back down at the rain collecting on your hands.

For the first time in months, Chrollo heard you speak.

"But love, it's so pretty." You hummed, smiling at the rain.

Chrollo was shocked, not only did you speak, you were smiling.

You grabbed his hand gently, tugging on it to guide him out into the rain. Chrollo relented, for your sake, your eyes locked in his.

You looked up at the sky, "See?"

He looked up too, marveling at you found something so simple as rain to be pretty.

“Yes darling, I see now,” He replied, wanting to keep you content, “I didn’t know you enjoyed the rain so much.”

You hummed, still staring upwards.

Chrollo watched a certain light come back to your eyes, one he had not seen for a long time. It was refreshing to see that sparkle of curiosity and wonder painted on your face, especially when he thought you would never find your happiness again.

He cupped your face gently, wanting you to look at him. Your gaze was soft, but his was intensely somber, almost too much for you to bear the weight of.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked quietly.

Your eyes flitted down to his lips before nodding.

Chrollo’s lips face you warmth in the lukewarm rain, your hands rested on his wrists as they held your face, keeping you afloat.

As soft as his kiss was passionate, you smiled against his lips, “Pretty.”

“Pretty?” Chrollo echoed, not understanding you the first time.

You nodded, “Pretty.”

He smiled, wrapping his arm around you, now completely soaked as well, “Thank you, darling.”

[lavendermin]

when it storms | kazuha

pairing | kazuha x reader

word count | 1.9k

genre | light angst, soft, first encounters

The skies had been cast over with rolling clouds of dark grey. Where the sun and moon used to glow so reverently, there now only fell a heavy rain in their wake.

It was fortunate for the land, your father had commented after a few days of downpour. The rain season was hardly this generous in recent years, and with the nation currently closed off there was an uneven flow of imports due to adjustment. More paperwork, longer shipment times. The people would have to endure less patron flow as the rain kept most indoors, but harvests and plenty of crystal clear lakes would be a sight to behold in the coming months.

This is good, you convinced yourself. Perhaps the dry storm seasons won’t be as many.

The streets outside slowly became less and less active with the usual flow of people. You stand against the door frame of your family’s restaurant, watching the never-ending sea of grey clouds above. The rain is cold against your skin as you stick out a hand curiously. It feels refreshing, pleasant.

“We’re closing up a little early today since the rain is starting back up again. Bring in the sign that’s outside. It would be a shame if it got blown away by tonight’s storm,” your father said as he wiped down the counters and put away clean bowls.

With a nod you happily went outside, umbrella in hand. The rain pattered quietly and rolled off the sides of its protective roof, surrounding you with a soothing atmosphere. The day had dwindled to a lethargic close, and with a languid fondness you watched the last few shopkeepers huddle back into their shops and homes.

The streets emptied out within minutes leaving muddy streets behind. The smell of wet earth hung in the air nostalgically.

Maybe it was fate, that double-take you took. With one last gaze out across the rainy-soaked street, you noticed them. The figure was so still—statuesque— that you wouldn’t have noticed them through the rainy mist if it hadn’t been for the bright crimson of their clothing that stood out.

Had they nowhere to go? Or were they someone who enjoyed standing in the rain? Better yet… How long had they been standing there in the pouring rain?

The question made your heart sink just thinking about it.

From within the building, your father’s voice called out with amusement. “Y/n, come in quick or you’ll get soaked. I don’t want you getting chilled and falling ill because you wanted to watch the rain.”

There was a squeeze of your chest when you turned back to the rain—a pang of guilt that gripped onto your mind. Rain fell relentlessly hard as it picked up, and it filled your mind with concern for that stranger in the rain.

Your body only partially turned toward the door, a quick hesitation stopping you in your tracks as you took one last look over your shoulder. That person… would probably get sick at this rate. Something in the way they stood rigidly against the elements held no joy for the downpour. No childlike amusement like the one you held for rainy days.

“I’ll be right in,” you reassure. “I forgot I left something outside.”

Peering your head quickly through the door frame, you see your father wave you off with a patient smile.

“Be quick.”

With a nod, you wait until you see him disappear up the stairs to the second floor to turn in for the night. You are quick on your feet making your way down the street of shops and houses. The patter of your boots on the rapidly-forming puddles pushed your aching legs forward, umbrella tightly gripped in hand.

The stranger was still unmoving as you approached, steps sounding out with the splash of water with each step. You were sure he heard you, yet he did not turn to meet you as you drew near.

“You’ll get sick if you stay out here in the rain, stranger,” you lightheartedly commented as you stopped next to him, holding your umbrella over him just enough to still partially shield you from the rain.

His eyes remained on the grey sky above, only now torn away slowly from the trance. There was a sorrowful haze that gripped those misty, crimson eyes.

“Do you think the rain is beautiful?” he asked.

This sudden question took you by surprise. The way he looked out at the sea of clouds held anything but sympathy for the grey skies that rained mercilessly.

You blinked, not knowing how to respond to this mysterious stranger. Unexpectedly, though, you felt at ease in his presence.

“I think the feeling of it is beautiful,” you responded, looking at the sky with him.

He hums at this answer, seemingly contemplating it. The answer comes from someone who spends their life indoors, and he understands it. Somehow, these small differences in experiences from person to person brings a little comfort to him. To know that not everyone’s simplicities of life are plagued by grief soothes his soul.

Brief silence overtakes you both as you stand in the downpour.

“Do you not like the rain?” you quietly ask after a while. There’s a worried crease in your brows as you look at him, and he cannot help but feel like he gravitates toward your warmth.

Only the harsh patter of the rain on your umbrella and flooding of the streets fills the silence for a beat as he remains in his thoughts.

“It’s been a while since I heard that question directed at myself,” he chuckles. The small smile that graces his features doesn’t reach his eyes, but answers fondly all the same. “When I was younger, I loved the rain.”

There’s weight in the words as he speaks them. You choose not to pry into the emotional scars tied to his answer.

“Are you travelling?” you ask, changing the subject.

He gives you a smile, and you notice how his snow-white hair clings to his face from the rain. It leaves a pleasantly warm feeling in your chest—how gentle he looks.

“Something like that.” Though his answers are vague, you aren’t one to pry—not when his eyes hold a distant sorrow in them. “It’s best to head inside. You could get sick out in the rain.”

“Come indoors with me, then,” you offer simply. With a warm smile you add, “If you’d like.”

He blinks at you, watches as you hover the umbrella closer over him. The rain is soaking most of you by now, and your smile is radiant— innocent in it’s bright sincerity as you offer him a roof over his head.

It makes this kind gesture all the more difficult to refuse.

“Kazuha,” is all he responds with, a thankful smile softening the gloom that surrounds him as you both hurry back down the muddy street. You introduce yourself just as briefly and lighthearted.

With a motion to the bar counter, you tap your hand on its surface to offer him a seat while you close up the shop and disappear into the kitchen. Kazuha wordlessly takes a seat, the warmth of the restaurant enveloping him pleasantly. His hands grip the towel that now rests around his shoulders a little tighter.

Within minutes, there’s a steaming bowl of noodles placed in front of him. “You’re too kind. I couldn’t possibly—“

You wave him off, plopping down on the seat next to him. “If the food is available, why not share a meal?” you interject simply, settling down next to him to begin eating your own noodle dish. “It’s hard to cook small portions when you’re only ever used to making large amounts for hungry customers. So, please, help yourself.”

“Thank you.” And Kazuha means it. “I’ll take my leave once I’ve finished.”

The look you give him is a little incredulous.

“In this rain? It’s an awfully harsh storm we’re expecting tonight.” You set down your chopsticks, looking at him fully with wide, concerned eyes. “You’re free to stay in the guest room until the storm passes. I would feel terribly guilty to leave you out in the rain.”

It’s silent, and you’ve both left your food untouched as Kazuha becomes a little tense. There’s something weighing on his mind with how he avoids your gaze, hands anxiously clenching and unclenching in his lap.

He reaches into his pocket, clutching something in his palm shielded from your view.

Now you’re curious.

His voice lowers, soft and cautious. “I don’t want to put you in danger with my presence.”

The smooth metal of the vision’s frame clangs quietly as Kazuha places it on the table, sliding it towards you.

“I’m a wanted man.”

There’s no response from you for a brief moment. Visions are rare to see nowadays, and even more dangerous to have. Your fingertips smooth over its surface momentarily, eyes sparkling with intrigue and wonder.

“The vision… Why is it missing?” you wonder silently.

Kazuha looks down. “That’s—“

“You don’t have to explain anything. This doesn’t make you a bad person,” you quickly defend. It takes him aback, caught off by the sudden emotion that makes your eyes twinkle. “Stay.”

“It would put you in da—“

“I don’t care. Your life is important. I’ll help you.” There’s a fire in your eyes as you hold his gaze, face serious. Your expression softens as you place the blank vision back in his palm with a reassuring gentleness. “I won’t lose another person to them.”

There are details that both of you do not know, information left out of each other’s backgrounds and circumstances. But one thing reigned true—there was goodness in his heart, and in yours, too. Perhaps this is what convinced him to accept your generosity.

He’s smiling, gentle upon his expression as he picks up his chopsticks once more.

“You aren’t the first to put your life on the line for me,” he adds quietly. The atmosphere has relaxed once more as you both continue eating through idle conversation in the dim restaurant lighting.

You hum, mouth full of food. “And I’m sure I won’t be the last. But,” you bite your thumb, pondering. “I’m sure you’ve been running for a while.”

With a quiet sigh, he answers, “Longer than I thought I would last, if I’m being honest.”

There’s a glint in your eye, and you’re deep in your own onslaught of thoughts. There’s an underlying anxiousness that falls upon your shoulders. Kazuha wishes he could read you better.

For the remainder of the quick meal, you hold your tongue but he can see the gears turning in your head. The bowls are emptied, hunger satisfied, and you show him to the guest room through hushed voices.

“Kazuha,” you call quietly before leaving the room you prepared for him. Your voice lowers further, barely above a whisper and you make it a point to sidle closer to him. “If you had the chance to escape Inazuma… would you?”

His eyes go a little wide for a moment. “You couldn’t mean…”

“I have a plan.”

And in that moment, he gazes at you with reverence and trust. His heart would be safe in the palm of your hand. You wait for his approval to continue with the idea. The smile he flashes you is contagious, and you are a beacon of hope in this tumultuous uncertainty.

He sits on the sleeping mat you've prepared, patting the spot next to him where he plopped down. “Let's hear it, then.”

In the late hours of the night, two hushed voices debate their best chance of escape.

“I have a close acquaintance, captain of her own fleet from Liyue.”

[kireiwoo]

[7:29pm] # jung wooyoung.

first loves are a peculiar phenomenon.

they’re different for everyone; nuanced and pure, sometimes possessive and confusing. generally, there are a few recognizable traits that people share in a conglomerate of harrowingly differentiating forms; that gently aching thump of a rapid heartbeat, the once annoying squawks of irritating birds turning mellifluous and cherished in the charred dawn, or even skin prickling with heat, particularly on an unnoticeably freckled countenance. jung wooyoung remembers his first love like a meadow of marigolds.

she had the sweetest smile and the softest eyes, with silken skin and frazzled hair tousled by the playful wind. her voice was mild, perfect and laced with an intoxicating slur that beckoned him like strawberries and cream. she smelt like blueberry muffins and shaved vanilla, glasses idly perched on the bridge of her nose crookedly. she enjoyed lazing at the beach with airy shirts coloured variously, and sifting her fingers through smoothened sea-glass and sedimentary pebbles along the shoreline.

wooyoung and her had a special spot by the bay. nestled between oakwood and birch trees laid an undisturbed alcove; a small opening leading to a brief dock. lily pads and rose-coloured flowers entangled around the perimeter of the dock, wet moss and algae absentmindedly creeping up the corroded posts in each corner. the water grazing the horizon sparkled with the pearlescent sun’s rays, and wooyoung usually brought her there for picnics or as a means of fruitful escape.

the last occasion they spent time at their humble, blissfully ignorant getaway, she was wearing a mushroom necklace and mint-leaf hued sandals. he remembers her goofy laughter while they sipped convenience store banana milk and munched on handmade sandwiches. they weren’t gourmet, and wooyoung remembers being freshly introduced to the world of cooking, but they sufficed. the food had a sentimentality attached to it that urged them to devour it anyways.

he remembers times like that, pure and innocent like the crystal waters below them. but he also unwillingly recalls the bountiful arguments; moments where their disagreements turned sour or misunderstandings arose suspicion that led to frivolous octave matches. he remembers the feeling of cold tears on his warm cheeks; the contrast stark and alarming as his scratchy voice pleaded for a resolve, even though he knew he was wrong and that forgiveness was a fever dream. he remembers wrapping his arms around her and promising that he would be better; admitting to his faults in a desperate hope that things would smoothen over and they’d return to their normalcy that was the dock behind the foliage.

but they didn’t.

the separation was painful; comparable to stitches torn apart and sharp decay at the heartstrings. it was strange how the physical feeling of immature heartbreak was a thing. snot bubbled down to wooyoung’s lips and his eyes ran with rivers of tears; he couldn’t accept it. he felt like the world was crumbling. wooyoung would’ve gone lengths for her; down to the rumbling, pressurized depths of the ocean and light-years across an unbelievably bleak and dark universe. but the cosmos would shine with a luminescent illusion simply because he knew he would be returning to her, no matter what. this felt like floating in a pool of watery darkness, down to the impending trenches filled with gory, disembodied dreams and lost aspiration. she didn’t have to leave for it to hurt as badly as it did.

wooyoung eventually picked himself back up. he came to realize that life wasn’t as dim and resolutely dreary as he pictured it to be. he accepted that he wasn’t being dramatic, he was being realistic. unintentional pain isn’t ever something someone can purposefully dramatize, he thought. downtrodden, in the mud, even hitting rock-bottom; the only thing you can do is get up or give up; and he was tired of fantasizing about the latter. months passed and though he knew years of of a reciprocated relationship wouldn’t seep from his mind like steeped earl grey, he understood that it would take time and effort.

he understood that the pain of first loves were apart of growing up, whether he wanted to or not. he understood that the chirping outside would feel agonizing, the thumping would be a reminder that his heart wasn’t specifically beating for someone anymore, and every aspect of his life would seem to revolve around her, but he knew that eventually those feelings of bittersweet melancholia would gradually fade away. he learned that sometimes things have to be hard to get better. sometimes lonesomeness is a lesson disguised by a lust for company, no matter how toxic or tainted it may be.

today, wooyoung sits by himself at the dock. he stares out into a sunset of burnt oranges, crimson, and honeyed magenta, recognizing that he doesn’t need another half to complete his mismatched but beautiful semi-circle. he knows that he’ll fall in love again, and that’ll it’ll hurt, but from that suffering he also learnt that life doesn’t have to be wildly traumatic to have it’s hard moments. he found that living doesn’t have to revolve around finding love in a lost alcove by the bay. a large portion of growing up means to find, to hurt, to heal, and to reminisce. and sure, sometimes he gets that gargling pit of nostalgia buzzing deep in his gut, or that momentary haze of remembrance that stuns him into silence, but he knows that it’s fleeting; monotone but temporary.

first loves are a peculiar phenomenon; they can be achingly painful or addictively sugary, and sometimes they end in more strife than intended. they feel like dancing on clouds of cotton candy, the disgustingly gloomy world suddenly painted with colours you didn’t know existed. heartache is expected, as well as tears of grief and frustration, but it’s part of growing up. because sometimes, growing up means experiencing the brunt of pain before you can enjoy the tangible delicacies of happiness. wooyoung knows that now.

and he’ll sob and mourn from the residual loss, but he’ll always remember her, his first love, like a meadow of marigolds; as a flower he held, and one that wilted, but one he’ll never forget. first loves are such a peculiar thing, no?

— taglist ; @masterninjacow @subways-stuff @neo-shitty @seacottons ! thanks for reading :(

[rulerofstars]

lie to me

Despite being star-crossed lovers, you chose to spend the last day of the year together.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader

Genre & Tags: Modern AU, angst, swearing (not edited).

Word count: 1,800 words

The last day of December’s kiss left you shivers as you took a walk along the chilly streets. The hand in yours contested upon the ice that started to make you cold because of the breeze, but unlike before, the scorching love wasn’t as searing as it used to be.

You left footprints against the white snow, leaving marks that would soon be gone, because. . . nothing lasts forever, right? That’s why you and he didn’t. Years felt like a glimpse. The thoughts of your long-term relationship sketched a small smile on your pretty lips, yet it caused another crack on your fragile heart.

Who changed? It was the first question you’ve asked when Levi admitted how he gradually fell out of love. How he told you how much he tried and fought to make it work. Who was to blame? Was it you? Was it you, for taking the slight hunches for granted and shaking it off just to escape from the reality of having to talk about the faltering relationship?

Who changed? Me? Him? Us?

“Yeah, one black tea and a hot chocolate.” He said to the cashier, paying for the drinks and handing you the beverage. You muttered a quiet thanks while his warm hand rested upon the small portion of your back.

“You’d walk me home?” You asked, your innocent eyes looking directly at his. Subtly yet desperately hoping to witness the small gleam that used to reflect upon his grey eyes, whenever he got the chance to look at you. His slight nod gave you the assurance.

It was the cold night of October when you first noticed how everything felt like it wasn’t the same as it used to be. It was a cozy evening when you started to have doubts about the warmth that seemed to weaken, the spark that did not shine so bright anymore, the colors that have faded.

You didn’t want him to admit, you didn’t want to hear anything from him. Because you are well aware that you couldn’t take it. You couldn’t lose him, anything but him. Anything but Levi.

“If your love had gone away, don’t tell me right now.”

“How ‘bout we take the path that passes by Trost?” You asked, once again. A small smile crept up Levi’s lips, a brief glimpse of his memories flashed on his mind. It was where you first met, where you had most of your firsts.

“Of course.”

Why was it so hard? The butterflies in your stomach have stopped dancing when you realized how his heart stopped dancing with yours for quite a while. Cloudy skies engulfed your once bright ones the moment he admitted how he had already tried enough, and that there’s no way that you both could save the relationship.

The cries of your broken heart broke him, too. Searing tears of regret and melancholy burned your flesh while he told you how sorry he was. That night made you begged the skies to make you feel numb, and you know that you lost. You knew it. You lost him.

“Hey,” A vapor flew out of your lips once you spoke, catching Levi’s attention.

“Hm?”

You’ve begged him to help you. That night, you pleaded for his help, you desperately sobbed on his shoulder and sought for him to leave you, little by little. And he killed the void that almost consumed your brightness, embracing your shaking form, and comforting the terrified soul that he had loved for years.

“Who said the first I love you?” You smiled, holding his hand tighter upon passing by one of your favorite restaurants. The dark hues of the dusk casted not enough light against your forms, the dullness granted you a chance to camouflage the emotion that reflected upon your face.

“It was you.” A small scoff escaped his cold lips, stopping the smile that wanted to paint his face because of your silliness.

“No,” Your right hand found its way onto his side, pinching him lightly. “It was you! You told me when you were drunk.”

He eyed you as if you were absurd, amusement coated the once nonchalant irises of his. “Shut up, I don’t get drunk.”

Your relationship’s yesterdays were nowhere near perfect, but it did make you enthralled. Amazement and bliss enveloped you both while you danced in the middle of a ballroom full of strangers. It was nowhere near perfect, but you were in love.

You are still in love.

Above you both were the fleeting heavenly bodies, ready to say goodbye to the year, ready to be a canvas to the fireworks that would soon paint the skies. Memories your past new years together flooded your mind and awakened the weakened flame of your heart. Your grip on his calloused hand became tighter as you saw the ferris wheel of your amusement park.

Tears that felt like comets fell like meteors from your starry eyes. The pain was never about being left after years of holding each other’s hand. But you were about to be completely lost. It was the feeling of nothingness, it was the fear of facing the world on your own without the person you’ve grown fond of for years. It was never about how long you’ve been together, it was about how deep the love was. It was about what flourished between him and you.

And what hurts the most is that you thought it’s going to last for a lifetime.

But it didn’t. And how you wish it did.

“You really have to improve your shit sleep schedule.” You squeezed his hand. Some people are starting to go outside and light their sparklers, there are some who are already making noises, and you are neither. You are outside, but the screams of your heart is louder than any kind of firecracker.

“And you have to improve yours, too. You adapted mine, brat.” He scoffed, and you laughed because it’s true. Through the years, you had always attempted to stay with him from dusk until down. And as a consequence, you ended up having the same fucked-up body clock. But you didn’t mind, you probably never will. “I won’t be there to force you to sleep, you know.” He said softly.

While walking above the thin layer of snow, leaving footmarks, you the gloss of tears coating your eyes once again. Your home would be walking away from you, and fuck. Fuck. How you wish he wouldn’t.

“You have to start eating healthy, too. No more junk foods, okay?” His voice is coaxed with the warmth the contrasted what kind of cold you are feeling. The same kind of heat you fell in love with, the same kind of ardor that melted every ice that formed within you. “I mean it, brat.”

“Fine.” You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to stop yourself from sobbing. Had it been a different scenario, then you would go and spat a sassy remark. But it’s different. And the only way to stop yourself from breaking down is to avoid talking, because heaven knows how close you are to breaking.

There’s no easy way, you are aware that breakups aren’t beautiful, but you didn’t know that it would be like this.

Why did it have to end so soon?

The familiar path towards your apartment greeted your sad eyes as you hold onto Levi’s hand tighter. Every moment spent flashed into your mind, recalling the butterflies, the tears, everything that reminds you of him.

“Oh, and you always have to lock your door now, m’kay?” You chuckled. Looking back at how you have depended so much onto him, that every time the two of you enter your apartment, you’d leave the locks to him.

You’ve grown too fond of him and now you don’t know where to start. Where do you let go? What would you let go of first? How could you let go?

“I guess. . .” You trailed off, fighting the tears from rolling down your snow-kissed face, trying not to succumb into the pain that you have tried to avoid for months. “T-this is it?” A quiet sob made you choke on your words, the staircase to your apartment had never looked so terrifying. Levi’s sudden embrace had you. He had you breaking down into little embers that soared high above the frost.

“Don’t cry,” He pressed a kiss on your temple, making you bury your face into him even more. “I hate seeing you cry, fuck.” He whispered your name as if it was precious. And indeed, it is.

“I love you. Fuck, I am so in love with you.” Your trembling fist softly collided with his hard chest, “How will I be okay with letting you go?”

Jet black hair covered his dark eyes, but you don’t have the courage to stare directly into him, anyway. He was so easy to love, so easy to hold, his warmth was everything. And perhaps, that everything was never meant to be yours.

“Tell me now,” You whispered. Allowing him to admit how he really felt, telling him to say what lies beneath the bottom of his heart, begging him to help you let go.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

“And I love you, you know.” Spasms of ache conquered the soft crevices of your heart, abysmal clouds seemed to engulf your rainbows, but you had no other choice.

The fireworks started to lighten up the dark sky, various colors painted the boring heavens with wonderful colors and sparkles of joy. Lights of different tinctures illuminated what seemed to be a void, as people watched in amazement while waiting for the new year to come.

“Take care of yourself.” Levi caressed your trembling form, cooing the terrified you, calming the awakened emotions. “Thank you everything. . . for letting me go.”

“Anything for you,” You nodded, the sad eyes that used to made love with his is now filled with pain and longing. He understood your signal, you wanted him to go now. Because if he had stayed longer, then you wouldn’t be able to.

“I love you, Levi.”

He walked away from you as you stared frozen, the truth still not sinking in. Your reality still lies beneath the love he had thought you, the love that you both took care of. The love that now only lives within the dying fire of your soul.

The loud cheering outside has been a signal that a fresh start has now come. Now is your first day of starting again, your first day of trying to go on without him, your first day of grieving.

Cheers to the new year. Cheers to the happy hearts, to the joy that may never fade. Cheers to everyone. Cheers to the love that succeeded, to the hearts that sang in tune. Cheers to the love that didn’t make it.

Cheers to us, my love.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 128

This is another chapter that I started with one intention and it kind of dragged me the other way. I started with what Miys says at the beginning as a kernel, and...

Yeah, avoiding spoilers, you get...*waves frantically* this.  Which I am excited about seeing where it goes.

Kudos to @baelpenrose​ and @mustachebatarts​ for this chapter. You’ll both understand when you read it :)

Tyche nodded sleepily as Alistair handed her a cup of coffee, mirroring my own struggle to wake up.  It was the beginning of Alpha shift - roughly 6:30am Terran Pacific NorthAm time - and we were starting our week with an extremely rare mission brief. Parvati and Hannah seemed either anxious or excited - possibly a combination - as the last brief they had received was ship-wide when we announced the lighting changes. Neither of them had ever been in one of the Council-only meetings that preceded such announcements.

Due to the growth on the Council - both among administrators and among Mentees - it wasn’t feasible to hold this meeting face to face in the room ordinarily used for such things. As a result, each Councilor was joining from their respective office, along with auxiliary staff who needed to be privy to the information discussed. For someone like Grey, that would be themself, Antoine, and their current admin, Nora. In my case, it was everyone who reported to my office.

“Has everyone joined?” I asked in my role as Parliamentarian for this meeting.  No one liked the position, so it rotated.

“Still waiting on Huynh, Charly, and Ivan,” Eino replied.

“We’re here!” an entirely-too-awake voice greeted.

Ignoring the laugh that Alistair and Hannah were suppressing, I forged ahead. “That’s everyone then. Good Morning, Council. Today is January 23rd, 2051 Terran-relative time, 45th day of Von cold season Year four Pre-Colony. We are currently two Terran years from Von. Miys has requested that we gather this morning for an important mission update so that we can prepare. Miys, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Wisdom. Good day, Human Council.” I couldn’t tell if Miys had practiced or was operating on multiple minds, but the resemblance to a human public-speaker was startling. “As stated by Councilor Wisdom, the Yjq is currently two Terran years from your destination. We requested to address you in order to advise that navigational adjustments will be necessary within one Terran year of the planet you call Von.”

Murmurs erupted on the conference, but no one actually interrupted, so Miys continued. “Due to the density of systems in this portion of the Galaxy, the final Terran year of the journey cannot be made at our current speed.  The Yjq will need to drop out of relativistic space and complete the remaining leg in realspace.”

“How does this immediately impact the human population?” Grey asked first, hardly letting Miys finish their statement.

“With the sensors operational, there should be no noticeable difference in the transition,” came the answer. “However, there will be the introduction of potential physical hazards once we are in realspace.”

After a pause of silence, Xiomara spoke up. “Are you talking about the potential of being attacked?”

“Galactic law prohibits acts of violence against aide or rescue vessels.”

I heard an explosive snort before an extremely dry voice joined in. “Miys, that is the opposite of an answer,” Evania argued. “And we all know that criminals are famous for their adherence to the letter of the law.”

An alert chirped on my data band, and I almost choked when I saw Arthur’s message: “Oh, I LIKE her…”

“Once we are no longer in relativistic space, the Yjq is due to rendezvous with an Ekomari escort within thirty Terran days.”

“And what is the tactical benefit of that escort?” Evan pushed.

Rather than Miys, Charly responded. “Ekomari are very aggressive, but even more bound by a code of honor.  They view preying on the weak - including rescue and aide vessels - the most disgusting behavior imaginable.  This extends to the point of stopping their own attacks once the enemy is considered defeated.”

“Only an extremely overconfident or suicidal crew would try to go up against an Ekomari squadron that is escorting us,” Arthur finished.

“That is satisfactory. No objections.”

Approval in her tone, Xiomara launched the next question. “What about the thirty days we won’t have an escort? What is normally done on that leg of the journey?”

“Optimally, there is no such period during such a relocation.” I heard every person in my office inhale with dread at that statement. “During this time, there is always an increased concern that pirates and scavengers will attack in an attempt to be the first beings with artifacts from the newly present species.”

“Souvenirs… They want us for souvenirs…” Tyche muttered.

“We will discuss our options once we have all the information,” I stated loudly, trying to keep the meeting going before everyone panicked. “Miys, what other information do we need to know about the final year of the journey?”

“Once we are in realspace, long distance scans and data mining operations will begin for more accurate information regarding Von.  This information will be communicated to the entire Council so that any changes or updates to colony plans may be adjusted and finalized.  That is all for now.”

“Thank you Miys. You may remain in the meeting, as we may need your input regarding Galactic regulations, statistics, or laws.”

“Of course, Wisdom.”

I nodded and took a deep breath. “Xiomara, I’m pretty sure that you and Evan have a lot to say on the matter at hand.  Are there any objections to Health and Safety taking the floor?”

After a round of negatives, I conceded the floor. “Thank you, Sophia. Council, clearly there is a pressing matter in our future, here at the end of a tumultuous era, just as our goal is in sight. We cannot allow thirty days of risk to derail us now. For all that we have striven to show humanity as capable of peace and change, we now need to reach down to the roots of our very existence and ensure that we will not be undefended in that month.”

“Miys, the Ark is equipped with scouting probes and evacuation shuttles,” Evan followed. “What are the chances that we can repurpose those into our own small squadron for defensive purposes.”

“Doing such would invalidate the protection the Yjq is afforded by Galactic Law.”

“Excuse me, what!?” I sputtered, completely caught off guard.

“Hospital ships are only protected so long as they are incapable of defense, to prevent opposing forces from attacking each other under the guise of aide,” Charly explained in a mournful tone.

Evan and I groaned heavily. “At least tell me that the odds of any attackers completely blowing up the ship are low?”

“They would only be able to do so by detonating our drives from the inside.  To do so from the exterior would require more force than a coronal ejection from a white dwarf star.”

That was reassuring at least.

“So we would be safe as long as they don’t board the ship,” Arthur acknowledged.  I could see where his next question was going, but Evan beat him to it by a mile.

“Since we are not Hujylsogox, and are only the cargo of the Ark, there are no prohibitions against us defending ourselves in the event of a forced boarding, correct? Only you, yourself, would not be able to fight back.”

“This is correct, Commander Josue. I am not allowed to interfere in such a matter.”

Interesting wording.  Noah was telling us, as officially as allowed, that it would not fight the intruders, but also would not stop us from any actions we took. I smiled as I felt a confirming nudge in the back of my mind.

“Well, those weapons demonstrations were certainly not just for fun,” Huynh growled.  I could hear Charly cackling in the background before he confirmed to her that, yes, she can play with the construction exos.

“Let’s be organized about this,” Xiomara insisted. “For those comfortable with helping defend, we need to set up anti-boarding drills to start six months out at the latest. For those on the ship who are against violence, sort them into who can provide medical aid and who needs to do evacuation drills.  Eino, Arthur - can you assist Sophia’s team with that?”

“We can,” Eino confirmed, echoed by Arthur.

Parvati and Hannah glanced at each other silently before the former jumped in. “I recommend that at least one person with weapons training is assigned to each evacuation group, as a worst case defense.”

“I second that,” Xiomara agreed in a clipped tone. “Any objections?” A brief, silent pause. “Good. Add that to the strategy.”

“Miys, we need a list of what species are most likely to be found on pirate vessels.  Knowing their biology will go a long way to developing defense strategies,” Arthur requested.

“I like it,” Evan approved. “Ekomari may be honorable, but humanity has survived this long because we aren’t ashamed of taking cheap shots.”

“It is safe to assume that boarding parties will not have electromagnetic vision, as it has been advised that it is quite rare in the galaxy,” Grey pointed out. “We can use this to our advantage, most likely.”

“If we’re lucky to be in the light part of the cycle…” Tyche muttered.

“Administrator Reid has a point,” Pranav admitted, startling her. “If we are in the dark part of the cycle, we will be at a distinct disadvantage.”

“The lights are artificial,” Huynh sighed. “We can turn them on.”

“If I may interject,” Miys responded. “It is not as simple as you seem to believe to increase the light emitters on the entire Ark, Councilor Huynh.  The drain on the ship engines could permanently damage them.”

I could feel Charly’s eyes rolling in my soul when she picked up from there. “We can try to make some plans for that contingency. Pranav does have a point.”

“So that’s anti-boarding drills, evacuation drills, aid teams, threat assessment, and at least a start on evaluating where we stand from a defensive perspective. Once Sophia, Eino, and their offices coordinate who is which group, we’ll pull back up to determine who will be leading which initiatives,” Xiomara recapped. “Sophia, anything else we need to cover?”

“I think that’s the priorities right now,” I confirmed, effectively ending the meeting.  Once I closed out the channel, I turned to those in my office. “So, how do we feel about this?”

“Like you are going to be in one of the evacuation groups, stuffed as far back in the ship as possible,” Tyche stated drily.

“If we get boarded,” I pointed out. “It may not happen.”

“Madam Reid, you are on this ship.”

I scowled at Alistair before turning to Parvati and Hannah. “Reach out to Arthur and Eino to schedule that meeting.”

Hannah looked unsure. “Why are they being loaned to us for this? Eino’s a Councillor.”

The door of my office hissed open and the rhythmic thud of boots walked in. “Because your office, specifically Tyche, handles all ship staffing, while I am being used for physical ability assessments, and Eino literally has nothing to do as head of Education in all this.” Arthur nodded his head in thanks when Alistair handed him tea.

I just pointed at him and nodded. “Besides, this way Xiomara is indirectly involved.” I glanced at Parvati before winking. “It was a clever move, I have to admit.”

Parvati smiled and shook her head. “I can’t even say you’re wrong. That’s exactly why she did it, honestly, on all counts.”

“And that is part of it, too.” Tyche waved. “Work more closely with your fellow future Councillors, and you learn to read what they aren’t saying.  Our office works very closely with Xio’s and Grey’s, so we have to know how best to keep that going.”

Arthur just held his arms wide and shrugged. “I have to respect Xiomara’s tendency to keep her fingers on all pulses.  She’s almost as bad as Sophia that way.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true,” Alistair sighed. “You are profoundly nosy.”

Hannah groaned and threw her head back. “We are never going to be on the Council at this rate.”

“Excuse me?? That’s the point of all this!” I gestured around my office energetically.

“Yes, because you will totally retire,” Hannah said slowly, nodding her head like I was a toddler. “Of course you will, Sophia. We all know it…”

Parvati snickered, covering it badly. Arthur gave me a pointed look, and I could hear him repeating ‘obsessive, compulsive perfectionist’.

I was saved, for certain, weird values of salvation, by Tyche.  She just glanced down at her nails, studying them, before calmly glancing at me. “Charly is dangerously close to getting approval from Sebastian for her proposal of kink night at the Undine.  Think really hard if you want to be on the Council for that, Sophia.  It would be an event, meaning it would come to this office.”

“Yep, retiring soon,” I squeaked.  Laughter erupted around me as my face heated up. “I’m all for sex positivity, but I just can’t fathom the logistics of that. Nope. Not gonna be me. Y’all have fun. Enjoy. All yours.”

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[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 13 | Tearful Goodbyes 

Pairing: Geralt x Targaryen!OC

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after the events of the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 5200

Note:  Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future uploads! 

*Gasp* Could this be? Me posting another chapter after only two weeks?? Impossible! I promise this is the last chapter that is heavily filled with angst, at least for a while! I can't help it, Vis is a very sad bean who keeps all her feelings in a bottle, and then she'll die. I just-- I need the build-up man! The character development man! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy, let me know what you think, I love reading all your comments and theories! <3

The cool air of night is a stark contrast to the heat inside of Visenya, which grew hotter as the chaos during the banquet did. But now that peace is restored, standing under the night sky lit up by glittering stars, she feels that heat simmer down until it's a comforting warmth. The northern wind is biting, but she welcomes the feeling, the cold reminding her of the North - of home. The cold that would chill her to the bone, leaving her with chattering teeth and icy hands that always seemed miserable is something she longs for; a semblance of normalcy. She inhales and then exhales, watching with child-like wonder as her breath becomes visible in the cold temperatures. So enraptured by the weather, she nearly forgets she isn't alone, and that Geralt is a few steps ahead of her now, watching her with curious eyes. Yet it's Jaskier's voice that pulls her from her stupor.

"So this is it?"

Visenya turns around, gold eyes wide with her lips set in a thin line. Jaskier is standing at the entrance of the castle, the noblewoman previously with him nowhere to be seen. He's disheveled and so unlike the normally prim and proper Jaskier she's accustomed to, his floppy brown hair windblown and sticking up in random directions. His clothes are wrinkled in odd places, ripped here and there, but overall mostly intact. His eyes are wide, as they normally are, but they're glassier than she remembers them being, the stars betraying what seems to be held back tears.

"You don't have to leave, you know, just because the Countess de Stael has agreed to be my patron. I could still use my bodyguard," Jaskier says, smiling, but it's not carefree and easygoing, brimming with his usual mirth. Instead, it's tight and harsh, not quite reaching his eyes. His hands loosely rest in front of him, fingers nervously intertwining with each other.

Visenya smiles, mustering all her strength to appear every bit the soft and docile maiden from every fairytale, looking at him like she would've Bran and Rickon. She sighs, forming and reforming the words in her mind, trying to find the perfect thing to say. But each time she comes short, a harsh reminder she'll never be a good poet.

Instead, she opts to shrug her shoulders and move closer to the entrance, closing the distance between them. She's melancholic, feeling as if another chapter of her life is coming to an end. She and Jaskier traveled together for years, how could she not feel a hint of emotion when it seems like their travels are on hiatus - if not done entirely.

"Come on Jane, you in court, scaring away all the mean people who want to kill me, we'd make the best team!" Jaskier exclaims, trying - and failing - to have his usual enthusiasm behind the words. They fall flat, sounding more desperate and sad rather than upbeat and encouraging. Visenya sighs once more, the smile on her face requiring less concentration as Jaskier continues to ramble. Finally, she closes the distance between them. "I'll never leave you to your brooding when you want!"

"Whilst that does sound interesting, I'm afraid I wouldn't do well in court," Visenya says, reaching out and taking Jaskier's hand in her own.

"I disagree, My Lady," Jaskier says, pursing his lips and looking at the ground, pausing for a brief moment, allowing the wind to whistle between them. "But I understand."

"My place is out there, where I can stab things," Visenya says, raising her brows with a small smirk on her face.

"You could do that here you know? Not to sound like I'm trying to talk you out of your decision because I respect your choices and everything," Jaskier says, his enthusiasm gaining traction with each word. Visenya laughs, a small laugh that's nothing more than a whisper, but it's music to the ears of anyone who hears it.

"I could, but that would get me in trouble with the law," she responds, shaking her head, the smirk playing on her lips morphing back into a gentle smile.

"Right, I almost forgot about that," Jaskier mutters looking up towards the sky.

"Goodbye Jaskier. Though with my luck this isn't the end, I'll run into you sooner or later," Visenya says, a mischievous glint in her normally stoic gold eyes.

"Oh, I'm afraid you won't get rid of me so easily, my fair lady!" Jaskier exclaims, perking up slightly. "Goodbye, Jane. You and Geralt watch out for each other, alright! I won't have the two scariest people I know both dying, then who'll serve as my protection at high-class events!" Jaskier proclaims, some of his natural charisma returning, his blue eyes not nearly as glossy as moments prior.

"I'll do what I can." Visenya places her hand on Jaskier's shoulder, pulling his body towards her's, wrapping her other arm around his neck as she hugs him. Shocked, Jaskier is stiff for a moment, before melting like morning dew under the hot sun and wrapping his arms around her. He breathes in and then out, as Visenya does the same until their breathing is nearly perfectly synced up. She places her face in the crook of his neck, burning the moment in her mind, unwilling to ever forget this moment in case it's their last. She inhales his scent, committing it to memory; juniper and sage, sharp and warm and earthy all at once, with a hint of sweet wine and linseed oil.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, the words muffled against his neck, but Jaskier understands her none-the-less. "I'm sorry for earlier,"

Jaskier's hand moves from her back to the top of her head, soothingly rubbing it as Lady Catelyn used to when Visenya would run to her crying about one thing or another. It's comforting and familiar, nearly bringing Visenya to tears from the simple act.

"It's okay, you're complicated, I paid extra for my bodyguard to be dark and broody," Jaskier says, a slight sarcastic quirk in his tone at the end. "But promise me you won't isolate yourself any more than you already have. Talk to Geralt, he understands broody and dark."

"I'll keep it in mind," Visenya responds, slowly opening her eyes and unraveling from Jaskier. "Maybe I'll tell you all about how complicated I am next time we meet?" Visenya gives him one last smile, slowly stepping away, but not turning her gaze away from him.

"Oh, I'll hold you to that promise, missy!" Jaskier exclaims, wagging his finger at Visenya as if she is a child. Once again she laughs, louder this time, not as restrained as it normally is.

"I'm counting on it," Visenya replies, talking one last step, turning around to face Geralt, rushing towards him, eager to escape the emotions brimming inside her. Trying desperately to not think about how odd it is that she is walking away from Jaskier, the only constant in this crazy world since the day they met.

"Goodbye, you two! Now take care of each other, in every aspect, if you know what I mean!" Jaskier calls out, disappearing into the castle before either of them could retaliate.

She meets Geralt, who says nothing, he simply raises a brow at her, silently asking 'Are you sure?'

"My place isn't in court." Is all she says. Geralt grunts, nodding his head, a stoic expression on his face. "Let's go back to the inn, I need an ale and lots of sleep."

A smirk creeps onto Geralt's face, his eyes shining with amusement, illuminated by starlight. He quietly snorts, turning to face the gate leading out to the main portion of the city.

"I can agree with that." In nearly perfect unison they walk out of the castle grounds, Visenya easily keeping up with Geralt's long strides. They're quiet, the only sound is their feet pounding against the cobblestone road and the ambient noises of guards and nobles around them.

A particularly strong gust of wind blows through the courtyard causing a piece of Visenya's hair to blow in front of her eyes. She grabs a small chunk of hair, intently inspecting the grey-brown strands. With the silver light shining from the otherwise midnight sky, she can nearly see the silvery-golden hue hidden under cheap hair dye. Or maybe it's a trick of her eyes. She lets out a puff of hair, blowing the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears to secure it in place.

"So a child," Visenya says, no inflection in her words as she continues to stare straight ahead. Geralt's steps falter for a brief second before he quickly regains his footing. He sighs, heavily, somehow managing to put in all his frustration and annoyance in one simple noise.

"I don't want to talk about it Jane," he says. His tone is stern as if he's talking to an unruly child. It reminds her of when she, Jon, Robb, and Theon were the terrors of Winterfell, in the days before they grew up and the world became dark. She can't help the faint smile that appears on her face, her gold eyes lighting up like the sun, but not nearly as bright as the summer sun in the South. It's more like the North, where the heavy fog and thick clouds obscure most of the sunlight, muffling the harshest parts of the rays and bathing everything in dim light.

"I know, but not talking about isn't going to make this go away," she says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He's clenching his jaw, veins on his neck slightly popping out. His lips are set in a thin line with eyes like stone.

"There's nothing to run away from," he says. Visenya stops, turning to face Geralt, reaching her hand out and grabbing his shoulder, stopping him in his place and turning him to face her.

"Geralt," she says, her voice serious and stern. "This isn't a joke. This isn't making a bargain with someone in a seedy part of town and running away before they can collect their prize. This is serious."

"I didn't take you as one to think destiny is real." Geralt says, raising a single brow at Visenya.

"We all need something to cling to," she responds, not breaking from his gaze.

"And what do you believe?" Geralt asks.

"That...everything happens for a reason; that there's a purpose behind every tragedy and triumph that we experience - both great and insignificant," Visenya says, keeping her voice low enough that any nosy passers-by won't hear their exchange.

"This isn't some divine plan; this was just a princess using her magic to get her way, destiny has nothing to do with a girl who has no idea how to control her powers," Geralt says, standing firm on his stance. Strong and stubborn; he would've done well in Winterfell amongst the Northern lords.

"Oh cut the shit Geralt, do you honestly have to be so fucking pragmatic that you can't believe in something if you can't see it with your own eyes," Visenay says, keeping her voice low enough as to not attract any more attention towards them. Whilst the crowds are thinning with each moment that passes, even one person seeing their argument is too many.

"I thought you were more intelligent than this, clearly I was mistaken" Geralt responds, taking a step towards Visenya. His eyes glow bright yellow like the fire burning inside of her. Geralt's fire collides with Visenya's ice. He's egging it on, he wants a fight, she realizes. For her to get so angry she yells and screams at him. Why he is, she's not sure.

"Do you have to be such an asshole, Geralt of Rivia? You have no right to insult my intelligence by being so patronizing, I'm not a child, don't treat me as such," Visenya says, spitting the words like they are venom. She steps closer to him, close enough that she can feel his breath and hear his heartbeat.

"Well, it's either that, or you sustained a far worse injury in that fight than originally thought. How could you believe in this horseshit?" He won't stop, adding further fuel to the fire inside her; her pride rearing its ugly head and demanding she win the fight, no matter how petty and uncalled for it is.

Visenya narrows her eyes and clenches her jaw. Her hands form fists at the side of her body, her blood nearly starting to boil from her rage.

"How could I not, after everything that's happened," she says with a voice like ice, so cold that it burns. Her words are quiet, but they're sharp, stabbing into Geralt like sharpened icicles in a winter storm.

"What? What happened Jane? I'm supposed to believe in destiny just because you survived a rebellion?" Geralt asks, a mocking tone lacing his cruel and coarse words. He's not malicious in his intentions, it shines in his eyes, but the words are daggers to her heart none-the-less.

"Stop it," Visenya whispers, taking a step away from Geralt, but he just moves closer. "That's not fair and you know it."

"The gods don't care who lives or dies, why should they care about some child--" Geralt continues, but Visenya interrupts him, her quiet words silencing him.

"I died," she simply says. Geralt closes his mouth, his clenched jaw loosening. Visenya takes a sharp breath and then lets it out, watching as her breath dissipates into the cold air. Heart pounding with shaky hands, Visenya closes her eyes for a moment and then opens them before continuing.

"My family was betrayed and they killed us, butchered at a wedding like we were nothing but cattle. Next thing I know, I woke up outside of Blaviken with this-" Visenya says. Gold eyes dart around their surroundings, searching for any eavesdroppers. Luckily, the streets are nearly empty, the few people still scuttling around not paying them any mind. She holds out her hand, and focuses on...something, trying to recreate the feelings that would bubble under the surface before the fire made its presence known. Her eyes flutter shut, and within a second, a small flame flickers in the palm of her hand, the fire quickly dying out. But it's all she needs.

"Fire magic," Geralt says, breaking Visenya from her concentration. She closes her palm, hiding the arm behind her back as if to protect herself from harm. She looks up, meeting Geralt's wide gaze. "Blaviken burning... that was you,"

Visenya nods, thickly swallowing the lump in her throat, trying to push away the haunting memories of Blaviken burning.

"I lost control and just-- exploded, by the time I came to, everyone was already dead," Visenya says, shrugging her shoulders, her voice hardly above a whisper; soft, weak, and almost completely vulnerable. She purposely leaves out the part where she reveled in the destruction, feeling glee from their suffering. Geralt is silent - maddingly so, it leaves Visenya tense and uneasy. Every second passing feels like a lifetime as Geralt stands in silence and Visenya awaits his response.

But he says nothing, just simply nods his head.

"What now? Are you going to put me down like one of those monsters?" Visenya asks, and despite the self-deprecating words, her tone holds no humor to it.

"You're not a monster." Geralt says, his words like a knife cutting through the thoughts rushing through her mind. "What's done is done."

Visenya nods, taking another step away from Geralt and turning to face the road, eager now more than ever to return to the inn. The rushing wind cools her face and eases the tension in her body, not completely, but enough that she isn't afraid of exploding. Geralt's heavy footsteps pound behind her, his long legs swiftly catching up to Visenya. It's silent, but not the soothing one that leaves Visenya comfortable. Instead, it's tense and awkward, the words from their argument lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," Geralt simply says, his tone not as firm as it normally is. Geralt is always sure of what he says - whether it's sarcasm or not, but this time he isn't. Witchers hunt monsters, not console maidens. The effort causes Visenya to smile, a small sad smile that doesn't fully reach her eyes.

"It's okay, we both have issues," she says.

"If you want to speak about it--" Geralt begins, the words sounding unsure as they leave his lips.

"I know where to find you," Visenya finishes his sentence, the smile on her face growing bigger. "But, if I did, I'd have to kill you," she responds. Geralt narrows his eyes for a moment, before a small smirk appears on his face, cracking the stone in his expression.

"Maybe you should tell Jaskier then, rid me of that bard," Geralt says, turning and continuing to walk towards the inn they're staying at for the night.

"Oh, he's not that bad. I might actually miss the guy," Visenya says, a small smile resting on her lips. "There's never a dull moment."

"That's what I'm hoping for, dull moments," Geralt says. Visenya looks at him, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Well, I'm afraid you may not get that, not with me around at least." Visenya teases, cocking her head to the side as she raises her brows slightly. Geralt looks at her, scoffing quietly.

"I'm counting on it," he replies. Visenya laughs, the sound more similar to a scoff. They continue weaving through the citizens that remain on the streets. No one pays them much mind, too busy in their worlds, but the few that do take notice of Geralt say nothing. And Visenya is grateful, she's had enough excitement for one night.

o0o0o

The tavern on the level below them is particularly rowdy that night; horrible renditions of bawdy tavern jigs being sung by drunks, cackling men and women, and the thumping of feet banging on the floor and mugs on the tables. The wall shakes and the floor does as well, disturbing the small amount of peace Visenya has. She sits on the side of the bed, her bare feet hovering over the floor, only the very tips of her toes touching the cold wood. Except for the ambiance, the room is silent, but not unbearably so. It's comforting and entirely foreign to Visenya to be able to hear her thoughts.

Jaskier hated silence, needing to fill it with nonsensical rambles and filler thoughts to break the quiet. But Geralt revels in the silence, seeing it as a prized commodity he doesn't get blessed with often. The cool metal of her silver dagger cools the heat that's always under her skin. She balances it in her right hand while staring at the blank wall ahead of her. Jaskier always said she broods too much and is never much fun to be around when this way. Geralt is on the edge of the bed across from her, diligently cleaning his blade. Any dirt and residual blood from the feast have long since been cleaned off, Geralt continues to shine it. His ashen brows are furrowed and his lips set in a thin line. There's a small line that formed on his forehead, a dead giveaway that he's lost in thought.

Visenya sighs, placing the dagger back into its small sheath and sets that on the small table near her bed. The bed squeaks as she stands up, the floor creaking as she puts more weight onto it. Geralt pauses his sword cleaning for a split second but continues as if he never stopped.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

The floor creaks with each movement and the distance separating her and Geralt quickly dwindles until it's almost nonexistent, her knees nearly touching him. Wordlessly, she sits beside him, reaching a hand up and beginning the arduous process of unweaving the intricate braids Jaskier put in them. A partially broken fingernail snags in her hair, getting knotted and tangled.

"Fuck," she says quietly under her breath, bracing herself to rip the chunk of hair out. Mentally she counts down from three, pulling with all her force on one. Rubbing her fingers together, she looks at the snaggle she pulled from her hair.

"Here," Geralt says, sheathing his blade and setting it aside. His much larger and rough hand reaches up towards her head but hovers over his head. "Can I?"

"Sure, can't be any worse than me," Visenya says, turning around to give him access to the back of her head. Without another word, Geralt's hand tangled in her hand, but instead of the recklessness Visenya tackled her hair with, he's much gentler, managing to unweave the braids twice as fast as she would've.

"Can I ask you a question Geralt?" Visenya asks after a moment of silence. Instead of answering Geralt just grunts, focusing on a particularly difficult four-strand braid.

"Are there dragons? And are they real?" she asks, putting all her energy into keeping her inflection neutral. She remembers in the Main Hall when Princess Pavetta's scream knocked everyone to the ground and filled Visenya's head with visions of a great fire giving birth to a dragon. She remembers how the clearing smelt and the longing inside of her to run her fingers over the smooth golden scales of the baby dragon.

"Yes, they're real, though they're exceedingly rare." Geralt responds.

"Really? What kinds are there, or are they all the same?" she asks, trying to turn to face him, but his other hand cups her head, keeping her in place.

"There are five: green dragons, they're the most common; red dragons less so; and black dragons are the rarest," he answers. He finally managed to find the tie keeping the four-strand braid intact and began carefully unweaving it.

"What about gold?" Visenya asks, staring at the blank wall as she remembers that dream from the woods when she stood in the Throne Room, The Red Keep in shambles around her as a gold dragon flew above her.

"They're a myth," he says, combing his finger through the undone braid before moving onto the next.

"Oh," is all she says, unsure of what else to say. Disappointment fills her mind, and for the life of her she can't figure out why. They're only silly dreams after all, right? "You say they're rare, why is that?"

"Treasure Seekers, idiots eager to steal the dragon's hoard, all the better if they could slay it and bring back a trophy of their kill," Geralt says, carefully pulling apart a knot in her hair. He's much softer than Visenya would've thought.

"Why would anyone do that?" Visenya immediately says, her brows furrowing. A quiet ow leaves her mouth as Geralt finishes working on the snarl. He mutters a quiet sorry but moves onto the next knot.

"For sport. Slaying a beast of that caliber is seen as a high accomplishment to commoners and nobles alike," Geralt says. Visenya feels heat rush to her face, brows furrowing more, causing small lines to appear on her forehead.

"They're not beasts to me. No matter how terrifying they may be to everyone else, I envy them. To be able to go anywhere you wish and do anything you'd like. It's...nice, romantic in a childhood fairytale sort of what. I'd give anything to see one," Visenya says, her tone of voice similar to a wishful child dreaming of knights and kings, vying for a happily ever after with either.

"I never said I thought they were beasts. Though I can't say I share the same sentiment as you, I prefer to stay away from fire breathing creatures," Geralt says, glancing at Visenya from the corner of his eye.

"I guess it's just in my blood."

"Is that why you have a dragon on the hilt of your blade?" Geralt asks, throwing the last small leather strip from her hair across the room. Visenya's eyes watch it soar through the sky before smacking against the wall directly across from her.

"Something like that," she answers, absent-minded and lost in thought. "It was a gift from...an old friend," she continues, glassy gaze casting to the dusty floor. She clenches her jaw in a desperate attempt to keep it from trembling.

"Was it--?" Geralt asks, removing his hands from her hair, but Visenya stays in place. She fears if she looks at him she won't be able to control the tears building in her eyes, eager to be free.

"Yes, and his name was Robb. He wasn't my brother, not by blood, but the Starks were the closest thing I had to family. He had it commissioned for me when we went to war. It - and my cloak - are all I have left of them," Visenya says. Her voice breaks with every other syllable, the words barely heard over the jeering patrons from below. The fire in the far corner of the room cracks, the noise drawing Visenya's attention to the flames. They illuminate her eyes - even more than normal due to the unshed tears, bringing out the flecks of white and orange in them.

It's still fresh in her mind, a haunting vision that she can't escape no matter how much she'd like: the sea of dead bodies around her, only to find Robb's decapitated body when managed to free herself. His direwolf coat-of-arms the only thing left that could identify it as Robb Stark. It pulls apart the stitches she meticulously applied to each and every wound that she sustained in Westeros. Months upon months, maybe even years, of work, only for it to unravel within seconds. She wants to forget. To throw herself into something - anything - as long as it frees her from these memories that linger over her like a dark cloud.

She takes a deep breath, trying to erase her rapidly beating heart, slowly thickly to get rid of the small lump in her throat. Her eyes flutter closed, refusing to open until the building tears disappear. Eventually, they do.

"You're not from here, are you?" Geralt says. His sentence is a question, but she knows he already knows the answer. He always seems to know.

"No, I'm not," Visenya mutters, feeling drained as if she just ran a marathon on little to no sleep. She's tired, and she's tired of being tired all the time.

"But I don't want to speak about that," Visenya says, sitting up straighter and moving her gaze back to Geralt.

"What then?" Geralt asks, ashen brows furrowed and eyes gleaming with interest. Visenya leans up, her face mere centimeters away from Geralt's. But she doesn't draw any closer, instead, she stays perfectly still, feeling his breath fan across her face and listening to his steady heartbeat - the pace much slower than her own. Her eyes trace his face, focusing on a faint scar that rests on his right cheekbone. The healed injury nearly glows in the candlelit room. She places both of her hands on his shoulders, using him to steady herself. She feels light as air, getting drunk off of Geralt's scent, inhaling the smell of fresh herbs and leather oil as if it's a drug she's addicted to.

"Oh I'm sure you could figure it out," she replies, a smirk on her lips. A heartbeat later, Geralt surges forward, closing the dwindling distance between them. His lips press against hers, firmer than she remembers, but just as sweet - if not more so due to the sweeter Cintran ale. She leans into him, eager to be as close as physically possible, and even then it wouldn't be enough.

Visenya pulls back, deeply inhaling in an attempt to gain her lost breath. She stares into Geralt's eyes, seeing her reflection in them. They're memorizing and captivating, full of everything Geralt doesn't say with words. The longer she stares the steadier her breathing gets, but the heavy feeling from the feast doesn't lift, and the distraction of Geralt did nothing but provide simple fortification to an already lost cause.

"Oh my god," Visenya mutters, her somber tone a stark difference to the teasing one she used moments prior. "I died," she says, disbelief lacing each word like she can't believe them even as they fall from her own lips. "I was murdered at a wedding and I died," she repeats, the tears returning, only this time with more vigor and she's unable to contend with their will. They pour from her eyes like heavy rain, clouding her sight and judgment, until all she can think about is Walder Frey betraying them over and over again.

The memories she'd buried deep inside her resurfacing. Catelyn falling to the ground, crossbow bolts stuck in her body, and Robb's dead body - head severed and replaced with a direwolf head - being paraded around on a horse.

Geralt pulls her towards his chest, his expression softer than the usual stoic mask he wears, albeit confused at her confession. Of course, her timing could not have been worse.

It's the first time she ever admitted to what happened. That her death - along with Robb and Catelyn's were real.

This is all real.

Objectively, every injury she received; whenever she's thirsty or hungry; or every time she goes to sleep and wakes up should've been proof that she's alive and her surroundings are real. But she's never admitted it, not to anyone and certainly not herself. Westeros is a topic she specifically avoids, keeping it locked away to never be seen. Subconscious denial is safer when survival is a concern.

She sniffles once more and pulls back from Geralt. She rubs her hand across her eyes, drying the dampness. The tears eventually stopped, however, her eyes remained bloodshot and puffy. Geralt carefully watches her every move, removing his hands from around her. She stands from the bed to move back to her own, eager to leave this night behind her. But Geralt grabs onto her arm, keeping her from moving away.

She looks at him with glossy gold eyes but says nothing, and neither does he. Yet he's speaking more clearly to her than anyone ever has in her life. Silently, moves back onto the bed, Geralt moving with her. He pulls back the blankets, motioning for her to enter first. The bed is as uncomfortable and itchy as hers, yet when she finally stops moving and Geralt gets beside her, she's the most comfortable she's ever been.

They continue to say nothing for the rest of the night. Visenya closes her eyes, moving onto her side, facing Geralt who stays on his back. Each time she blinks her eyes grow heavier and heavier, each breath deeper until eventually, she closes her eyes and the world turns black.

o0o0o

[cosimuhs]

haven’t seen you (since i was your little girl)

“Oi, Poppins, there’s a lady here to see ya,” she barely gets out, before the woman is turning and Dani’s face is falling, hands grappling for purchase on her pots.

“Mom?”

[or: Jamie has never been good with parents, but this? This feels important.]

read on ao3 or under the cut!

It’s a slow afternoon when the bell on the door jingles open, bringing with it a brisk wave of autumn air.

Honestly, as much as Jamie grumbles about it, autumn in Vermont has grown on her. She’s not one to celebrate the death of plants lightly (unless it’s a pesky invasive species) but there is something to be said about New England foliage. In quite the contradiction, it feels like life is abound in these months - the crunch of leaves and the brightness of Dani’s laugh that settles deep in Jamie’s chest.

As the heat of the summer slips and then disappears altogether, so does her personal space. In the newfound chill, Dani takes it upon herself to warm up, not with extra layers, but by pressing as close as possible — in the street, their joined hands stuffed into Jamie’s jacket pocket, shoulders knocking, or in the middle of the night, when Jamie will wake up, half off the bed, a pile of blonde hair heavy on her sternum.

Yeah, it definitely is one of her favorite seasons.

The only downside is the dip in sales, people sequestered at home against the chill, not looking to start gardening as they face the winter head on. Not to mention, as the months trip slowly past the autumnal equinox, the housewives who pop in, begging for mistletoe and holly in the middle of October.

The woman who has just entered, greying around the temples with lines of age deeply indented around her eyes, seems like just the type, and Jamie steels herself to send her packing for another month or two.

She looks strangely surprised to see Jamie, which is dumb because it’s her bloody shop, and even more taken aback at the lilt in her accent when she asks if the woman needs her help. That at least, she’s well acquainted with, because for some reason, no one in this town is aware that Brits exist.

So caught up in her stewing, she almost misses when the woman speaks. Almost.

“Maybe I got the wrong shop,” she mumbles, wringing her hands.

Jamie has to try hard to tamp down her annoyance because, really, what kind of product do you expect from a store called The Leafling?

Instead she tips on her customer service smile, the one that Dani says makes her look like she swallowed a lemon. “What were you looking for?”

“Who,” the woman corrects and pauses long enough that Jamie thinks this odd lady is not going to provide any other information before she continues.

“I’m looking for Danielle… er — Clayton. Danielle Clayton.”

There’s something familiar about the woman, yet Jamie doesn’t recognize her as one of their regulars. Even weirder, Jamie has never heard anyone refer to Dani as Danielle in her entire life.

“Ah, she’s out at the minute, but she should be back soon,” Jamie says, and she’s about to ask how and why and who, but the lady must see the confusion in her eyes and cuts her off.

I’m Karen,” the woman adds helpfully, as though that will clear literally anything up for her.  

“Okay, Karen,” she says, drawing out the vowels and trying desperately not to roll her eyes at the lack of context. “I’m Jamie��?”

Karen’s shoulders have dropped from around her ears, the worry lines fading into her forehead now that she knows she’s in the right place, though the anxious energy surrounding her doesn’t completely dissipate.

There’s a spark in Karen at Jamie’s introduction, like her name means something.

And.

The familiarity is scratching at the base of her neck, that feeling where you know you should know something, but it’s an inch past your reach and you��re forced to scrabble aimlessly, trying to connect the dots. She knows , can place this stranger in the swirl that connects the two of them, but she just can’t name it.

Thankfully, the door is pushing open again before she can guess, this time bringing in the object of their conversation, windswept and harried as she nudges hair from her eyes with a wrist, arms laden with multicolored arrangements.

Dani looks beautiful like this, cheeks flushed from the cold, even with the scowl on her face.

Her afternoon has been filled with endless options and the sharp bite of a bridezilla who needs everything to be practically perfect and Jamie knows Dani can’t wait to let the long day soak away, curl up with Jamie and a strong cuppa — said as much before she left the sheets this morning.

She’s going to close up shop early tonight, she decides the second she sees the strain in Dani’s shoulders, and help release the tension in other ways.

They just need to get rid of Karen first.

“Oi, Poppins, there’s a lady here to see ya,” she barely gets out, before the woman is turning and Dani’s face is falling, hands grappling for purchase on her pots.

“Mom?”

And oh .

Shite.

They have the same eyes, Jamie realizes belatedly, and the aging woman in front of her clicks into place with the grainy childhood photos Dani has tucked away in their apartment.

Karen — Mrs. Clayton — steps forward, enveloping Dani in a clumsy hug around the planters clutched to her chest. Dani doesn’t move to put them down, and Jamie would think it’s all rather laughably awkward if Dani weren’t looking at her over her mother’s shoulder, mouth set and pleading.

“How did you — Why are you… here?” Dani asks like she doesn’t really want to know the answer and Jamie’s chest aches because she knows Dani is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thinks her mother has come to convince her to move back yet again, or to make her feel bad about leaving in the first place all these years later.

Could never just be a trip to see her daughter.  

Jamie knows Dani has told Mrs. Clayton about her, on their sporadic calls throughout the years. Not about them necessarily, but that they work together, live together. Dani had never said they were just roommates, but her mother assumed and she never bothered to correct her.

Even still, it’s a warmth with which she is greeted by Dani’s mother that she wasn’t expecting, one that must have emerged in the years following Dani’s maturation if the look on her wife’s face is any indication.  

“I looked you up in the Yellow Pages!” Mrs. Clayton looks remarkably proud of herself, her palm still warm on Jamie’s forearm. “I figured not many flower shops have the same name in Vermont.”

Dani cringes and Jamie almost snorts, knows she’s regretting telling her mother the name of their store right about now.

Mrs. Clayton pushes forward, not even noticing the strained energy of the room.

“I’ll be here for a few days, in the inn down the road,” she beams. “I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to come out here!”

There’s a reason she hasn’t been invited. After years of bombarding Dani with questions of when she’s coming home, not willing to listen to the truth of she’s not, not now or ever, it seemed the pestering had suspiciously disappeared.

Now they know why.

Jamie clocks the quiet resignation that settles in the slope of Dani’s shoulders, but she thinks she sees a spark of eager excitement, smothered and tamped down, behind the solemnity.

Well. No way to avoid this now.

She’s hardly a religious person, but she sends up about ten Hail Marys in preparation for the evening, splayed long and endless, before her:

“You staying for dinner, then?”

---

Supper is maybe the worst thing Jamie’s ever sat through, and she had had to deal with Peter Quint for a good portion of her life.

She ruins the chicken and usually, Dani would grin, wide and teasing, before kissing her breathless against the stovetop.

This time, she sends an exasperated sigh towards the heavens and orders Chinese.

It’s stilted and uncomfortable and she finds herself constantly trying to stay afloat in this weird staring competition that Dani and her mother have got going on. Mrs. Clayton had already tried to mention Eddie, and Dani’s curt, “Don’t,” and the way her eyes flashed over the tableware had thankfully been enough to snap her mother’s mouth shut.

Dani had told her once, the hum of her words spilling into the dark warmth of their bedroom, that her mother had started truly caring about her too late, too removed. By the time she came around to the fact that she had a daughter worthy of time investment, Dani was past caring, had already learned to seek shelter in other, different people — too burned.

And now they’re here. At an impasse - mother and daughter who know nothing about each other, when it really comes down to it - who have spent decades tiptoeing around the mutual hurt and pain of being pushed to the side. Swept under the rug in favor of brief and surface level phone calls since Dani left for London.

Yet, Dani is so open, so achingly vulnerable always, in her emotions, that Jamie can see the longing drawn in the soft lines of her every time she hangs up the phone, sees the way Dani wants, violently, to tip headfirst into the notion that her mother means it this time around, right at the dinner table.

Jamie has been rough around the edges her whole life and she has never, ever been good with parents and, luckily, hasn’t had much opportunity in her life to make her impressions worse.

But this — Dani’s parent — feels important.

So she fills the space between by talking about hydrangeas, her favorite brand of manure composite, and whether she dabbles in vegetable growing. With each breath, she watches Dani breathe out of the corner of her eye, loosening in tune with the flow of Jamie’s brusque accent.

By the end of her blabbering, Dani is giggling at a particularly bad joke she makes and Mrs. Clayton eyes her daughter curiously across the tablecloth.

“Well, I would love a tour of your apartment, ladies,” Mrs. Clayton claps, and it jars Dani so much the table shakes when her knee jumps.

Her knee is the last of Jamie’s worries as she meets Dani’s wide eyes, because she totally forgot that they only have one bed, and how in the fuck are they supposed to just be roommates now?

Dani’s entire body has returned to rigid, fingers white-clenched on her chopsticks and Jamie longs to reach over, smooth her fingers over the groove of knuckle, kiss the promise sitting mercifully unnoticed on her ring finger.

Christ, this is so not how Jamie imagined the evening going.

“Sure,” Jamie yelps. “Why don’t you take a look around the living room while we clear up?”

She ignores Mrs. Clayton’s protestations and politely pushes her towards the record player in the corner as Dani fills the sink with warm, soapy water and they settle into a well worn routine; hip to hip against the counter, one washing and one drying.

“I’ll just be Bert the Chimney Sweep tonight, Poppins,” she murmurs, stroking a subtle hand down the length of Dani’s back when she’s sure Mrs. Clayton is distracted with the photographs on the wall.

Dani rolls her eyes.

“Bert was Mary Poppins’ love interest,” Dani whispers, but the corner of her mouth tilts up and she sags into Jamie’s touch for a moment.

“Allegedly,” she lobbies back, revelling in the grin she gets over the suds.

“I am serious, though,” Jamie continues, knocking Dani’s elbow gently with her own. “Just say I’m in the process of moving out or something and I’m crashing on the couch for a few days, that’s all.”

Jamie can see the moment that Dani decides, what she decides. Can read it plain as day on the face of the woman she loves more than life, in the curve of her lips and the set of her jaw.

“Are you sure?” They’re words from another time, another life, but Jamie means it just as much this time — would rather prioritize comfort, security, over rash decisions.

“I am always sure about you,” is the reply and Dani looks at her so softly, so carefully, that Jamie thinks she could cry, heart ricocheting against her ribcage.

---

She does it in the most Dani Clayton way possible.

“Mom, this is our bedroom,” Dani says, syllables burning quiet and destructive, nostrils flaring. “Where we sleep together.”

Jamie doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but it’s certainly not what happens.

Mrs. Clayton nods thoughtfully, brushing past the door frame to inspect the plant prints above the bed. She doesn’t speak for a long moment, fingertips running over the worn paperback on Jamie’s side table.

Finally clears her throat, thick and sticky.

“It’s a lovely apartment, Danielle.”

Dani’s mother glances up, meets their surprised faces, turns towards Jamie. “It seems like a lovely life you’ve built together.”

“You… Oh?” Dani manages, her calm belied by the tremble in her voice.

Jamie is frozen watching it all, the beauty of it unfolding in front of her with bated breath.

“I may not be a great mother, but I’m hardly an idiot,” Mrs. Clayton chides with no real malice.

At this, Dani’s eyes well up and she stumbles forward to sink onto the mattress, mouth opening and closing without a sound.

Jamie shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans, suddenly feeling like she is intruding.  Wants to give the pair the time they so desperately need from each other.

“Tea, Mrs. Clayton?” Her voice sounds loud in the still acceptance and she thinks she says something about Dani being terrible at it but her ears are buzzing too loudly for her to be sure.

“Please, call me Karen,” Mrs. Clayton says for the umpteenth time, and Dani lets out a watery laugh and nods, fingers slipping over Jamie’s briefly in quiet reassurance. She will be okay by herself, and if she isn’t, she trusts Jamie to help her pick up the pieces.

She dips her head and excuses herself quietly, winking sweetly and reveling in the faint blush that pinks Dani’s cheeks.

The apartment is quiet for a while and if Jamie makes more noise than usual putting the kettle on to give them their privacy, then no one has to know.

The drinks have long gone cold by the time they emerge, raw and yawning in the waning candlelight. Mrs. Clayton bundles herself into her coat when she sees the time, clutching her daughter’s hands in her own, and Dani hugs her, actually hugs her, eyes red rimmed and gentle.

“I would love to see you both tomorrow,” Mrs. Clayton looks at Jamie with Dani’s cheekbones, Dani’s kindness, and smiles.

It feels like approval.

---

After, when the door is long shut behind her and Dani has flicked on the television, feet curling under Jamie’s thigh, they will breathe again.

“All good?”

Dani looks at her with those mismatched eyes and presses a kiss to her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Keeps peppering long soft pecks until Jamie has to lean forward to capture her in a proper kiss, lips slotting together easily, eagerly.

Thank God for those Hail Marys because this is definitely her heaven.

Jamie gets lost in it, has barely been able to kiss this woman all day. Can feel the tightness in her chest unwind when Dani sighs into her, pulls her close and vows not to let go, maybe not ever with the way Dani’s hand is winding around her neck. She makes a little noise in the back of her throat and Jamie cracks open, splintering into oblivion to settle within Dani’s bones.

When they finally separate, foreheads tipped together, lips swollen and hair mussed, delight is written in every curve of Dani’s body.

She is radiant.

“All good.”

[salvejoon]

Life is Beautifully Ugly (At Times) - pjm | 03

⇒ Warnings for this chapter: Not much for this chapter, some cursing but that’s about it.

⇒ A/N: I apologize for being late in posting this chapter. IRL took most of my energy askfjhas

When Hyejin woke up the next morning, in your bed, she was a bit confused. Why was she in your bed and not in her own?

Had Appa put her here?

“Appa?” She called out but got no answer, “Eomma?” Still no answer.

Tears gathered in her eyes and she let out a wail which had you crashing into the door as you ran to the room. 

Your niece was bawling her eyes out, calling for her parents and you hurriedly went to her, “Baby, it’s okay, I’m here. Calm down.” You picked her up in your arms and hugged her close. You bounced her lightly up and down, gently calming her down. She seemed to calm down as her wails subsided and they turned into whimpers. You drew back to look at her, your heart constricting in your chest when you saw the trails of tears on her cheeks, “You okay?” 

She sniffled and nodded, “I think.” 

“Want to talk about it?” You sat down on the bed, adjusting her in your lap. 

“I just woke up and I was scared because I was alone.” 

“I’m here.” 

“But you weren’t when I woke up and I got really scared because I thought you had left me too.” 

No one could have prepared your poor heart for that one sentence and you sighed heavily as you put your head on top of hers, “I will never leave you, Hyejin.” 

“But what if you die too?” 

Charlotte was the one who was good with kids and you missed her sorely at the current moment, “I will die someday. It’s just how life works, baby.” 

Hyejin looked up at you, “Who will take care of me then?” 

“Hopefully, I hope that by the time I die, you’re old enough and won’t have to think about that.” You told her.

“But what if you die tomorrow? Will Uncle Jimin take care of me?” 

“Probably. Maybe. I think so, yeah.” 

“What about Boon?” 

You chuckled softly and nuzzled her nose with yours, “I think he’d love to.”

“I want Boon to take care of me if you die, Imo. Uncle Jimin seems is cold.” 

You sighed, “Your uncle is a peculiar man, Hyejin, but he’s not cold. He’s not as used to showing emotions as we are. He cares about you. He just doesn’t show it as I do.” 

“How does he show it?” 

“By buying donuts for you, for example. Now, dry your tears, sprout. We have a long day ahead of us.” 

Entering his father’s office, Jimin fought back his raging headache. He had a million things to do today and his father calling him to his office was not one of them. He had a funeral to plan and a woman that most surely needed help with said funeral.

Closing the door behind him, he bowed even though his father had his back turned to him, “You summoned me.” 

His father hummed and glanced at him over his shoulder, “Yes. Did you do what I asked of you?” 

“I did but she insisted that she will take care of the funeral.” 

There was a brief silence before his father whirled around, “She cannot afford it.” 

“She assured me that the cost was of no problem.” Jimin told him. He could feel his father’s anger even from where he stood, “Not that the cost really matters because she agreed to let me help her.

His father grew quiet as he stared at his youngest, “Not what I wanted but you will make sure your brother gets a proper funeral as per our customs. Make sure she remembers that she’s the foreigner and has no say.” 

Jimin’s eyes narrowed at his father’s words. Words that didn’t sit well with him. Yet he didn’t say anything.

“I will make it happen, sir.” He said stiffly, watching as his father nodded. 

“Good.” He turned his back to Jimin, “One more thing, Jimin, before you leave..” 

“About what?” 

“I want custody of the child.”

Korean funerals were a little different from what you were used to but you had spent most of the night texting Namjoon of the hows and whys. Jimin had also pitched in, offering to set it up but you insisted that you had it handled. You had to call the mortuary at the hospital where they died, order flower arrangements and then find out what kind of food and beverage the attendees should get served. 

Thankfully, a nice old lady guided you through the whole process over the phone and you let out a loud exhale as you hung up the phone. 

Now all you needed was to text Jimin with the details and he would take care of the rest. You leaned against the counter and put your phone down, ran both hands down your face as you sighed heavily. Right now you couldn’t be bothered with Jimin and Hyejin was at Namjoon’s for a few more hours. 

For the first time since the accident, you were completely alone. And it was quiet. So unbearably quiet in the apartment. Pain formed itself as a lump in your throat and tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. 

Your feet seemed to act on their own as they ventured towards the master bedroom. With a trembling hand, you opened it and stepped inside the dark room. The curtains shut out the midday sun and it was cold. So cold. 

Trudging across the room, you pulled the curtains and let sunlight enter the room, casting light on the multitude of pictures on the walls and nightstands. You took a deep breath and the pain only increased in your chest. It smelled like Charlotte. Her perfume. The stupid face creams that she’d spent a fortune on. 

And Han. His expensive cologne blended well together with the perfume.

You turned your attention to the photos on the wall.

You fingered the edges of a photo of them from their wedding. Charlotte looked annoyed as Han was carrying her over his shoulder. 

The next photo was of them, still at their wedding, smiling at each other as they’d just exited the shrine. Both dressed in Korean traditional clothing. You could vividly recall the ceremony and the love they had exuded. So many obstacles had stood in their way in the form of Han’s father, long-distance relationship, cultural differences and an unplanned pregnancy but they’d managed. 

Because Han and I, we’re meant to be.

She had really won the lottery with this one, you remembered thinking. 

The last frame on the wall was of you and her in your younger years. You were around 20 years in the picture and Charlotte was 17 years. It was taken in your grandparent’s backyard, a bright sunny day in August. You carried her on your back, her arms outstretched as she laughed. You looked up at her with adoration and love. 

You muffled a sob with a hand as you took the picture down from the wall and sat on the bed. The picture blurred as the tears won out this time and started rolling down your cheeks. 

You hugged the photo close to your heart as you cried in silence, completely alone, only surrounded by memories in the form of pictures of those you loved.

Jimin bowed respectfully as some of the chairmen entered the room, ears perking up when he heard your voice. He straightened and his eyes fell on you, clutching Hyejin’s hand in yours, Namjoon right behind you. 

The taller man’s eyes met his and he inclined his head in greeting and Jimin mirrored his movement. 

“Hey.” You greeted him as you came up to him. You wore a simple black dress with matching heels, a dark grey trench coat to keep you warm from the cooling weather. His eyes shifted from you to his niece. She was dressed in a black dress as well but more traditional, an outfit Namjoon had no doubt helped you get together. 

“Hey.” Jimin said before he turned on his heels, leading you into the room. 

Your eyes immediately landed on the pictures of Han and Charlotte framed in big, dark wooden frames, flowers littered around them, some in potts, others laying freely and covering a good portion of the floor. Candles were lit and cast the room in a warm glow. 

“It’s beautiful.” Namjoon noted as he stood next to you, his hand gliding across the small of your back in a comforting gesture and you nodded. Hyejin walked up to the pictures and touched the photo of her mother before you called her back to you. 

She hugged your right leg tightly, her teary brown eyes looking up at you and you nodded, wiping away a stray tear from her cheek, understanding her silent message. You missed them too. 

Then something in the corner of your eyes caught your attention and your eyes widened slightly as you saw who it was. 

Jimin’s father. You had only seen him a couple of times but his intimidating presence was still there. He took all the attention in the room, people bowing their heads, coming up to him, conveying their sadness to him for the loss of his eldest son. 

Next to you, Jimin stiffened when his father’s eyes landed on him. He bowed deeply and his father simply stared at him. 

You saw them and you had to bite your lip to not say anything. How could a father act so cold towards their only remaining child? 

Not even a pat on the shoulder? A nod in his direction? 

Dark eyes simply looked down at the bowing Jimin. 

Then said dark eyes roved over to you and the child hugging your leg. He looked disgusted almost. The disdain in his eyes was clear as day even as his eyes fell to his granddaughter. 

“Don’t say anything.” Jimin whispered as he stood back up, his father turning his back to him and you, “For the sake of Han and Charlotte.” 

“He didn’t even greet you, Jimin. Or Hyejin.” 

He didn’t answer, knowing that if he got you going, you wouldn’t stop and right now was not the time for your ‘open mouth, insert foot’. 

“The nerve of him!” 

Jimin sighed, his hands on the steering wheel tightening, “Just let it go, Y/N.” Then he glanced over his shoulder to check on the sleeping Hyejin in the backseat, “And lower your damn voice or you’ll wake her up.” 

You grumbled something he didn’t quite catch and then said, “Your father is an asshole.” 

“You’ve stated that six times now.” 

“And now I see where you get it from.” 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, opting to keep his eyes on the road. He’d agreed to drive you home to Han and Charlotte’s place at Namjoon’s behest. 

You glanced back at Hyejin and sighed, “What are we going to do, Jimin?”

“With what?” 

You rolled your eyes, “With Hyejin and the apartment.”

“Don’t bother thinking about that right now, Y/N.” 

“But-”

“But it’s been a long day for both of us and Hyejin. We’ll figure something out.” 

You sagged further into the car seat and nodded. Jimin was right. It had been a long day and all of you were exhausted. You would think about that stuff tomorrow. 

Jimin watched you out of the corner of his eye, relaxing into the seat and looking out the car window. His father’s words rang loud and clear in his mind and he wondered if he should tell you now. 

But then you turned your head towards him, your eyes boring into his face, “Thank you, by the way.” 

“For what?” He met your eyes for a brief second. 

You smiled, a tiny and tired smile, but a smile nonetheless, “For helping me with the funeral. You and Joonie really were a big help.”

His lips tugged upwards, “Of course.” 

[wri0thesley]

sweetness - yandere!risotto x reader

WARNINGS: sfw. yandere warning - stalking, obsessive behaviour, gaslighting. brief mentions of abuse (reader’s father is implied to be violent towards them). blood and violence. a lot of food descriptions. reader is gender neutral! 10.3k. 

Risotto finds himself in a rainstorm one busy evening and ducks into your place of employ for a brief reprieve. Your father’s sweet shop. Risotto is the kind of man who is used to having people be scared of him - nobody ever has the courage to treat him like an ordinary human being. Nobody has ever treated him like someone normal. Not until you. He leaves with a bag full of gifts for the rest of La Squadra, the memory of you smiling, and a crush that grows into an obsession. 

It’s a coincidence that Risotto Nero ever saw you in the first place - an assortment of the misfortunes that Risotto has come to accept as commonplace in his life. He had long ago accepted that the Nero family was not one for whom luck ran in the blood - a family who did not particularly care for him, the death of his cousin when he was fourteen, ending up in an organised crime syndicate with a gun in his hand and a list of names in his pocket. 

It’s a coincidence he’s glad of. 

That, at least, is not something he ever really thinks. Things that happen to him are either annoyances or acceptable; he goes home to a quiet, empty house and he grunts when he sees his neighbours but he does not offer anything more than that. He is perfectly civil to his associates in La Squadra di Esecuzione; they, he knows, think of his stoicism and his silence as strength. They look to him like a leader, because he has had to prove himself such. When he had been given control of his team at twenty one and met Sorbet and Gelato, already over a decade older than him, he had known he had to prove himself. 

If he has left some of his humanity behind, what does it matter? Humanity is not an important trait for a killer. Better for him to clog their veins with needles and razor blades instead of worrying about the family they may or may not be leaving behind. 

The day his life changed forever, he was on his way back to his mercifully quiet apartment after a day spent giving out orders to his teammates. It had not been a kind day; the pay the hitmen get, for what they are expected to do, is laughable. Risotto is keeping his roof over his head, but it is not without effort on his part - and his subordinates are still not always quite so lucky. The newest recruit, Ghiaccio, had been practically scarlet in the face when he’d been given his share--

Risotto pauses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a persistent ache in his temples. Ghiaccio is good at what he does - or he would not be a member of Risotto’s team - but Risotto is always left with a headache after speaking to him. The day is already on a southward spiral. The cold nips at his bare skin, the sky grey and cloudy, the pavements crowded with businessmen and women attempting to get home in the rush of the end of the day. Some of them glance twice at Risotto, leaving him a wide berth on the walkway - one or two of them even cross the street to avoid coming too close to him. 

His height and his dark eyes and his strange way of dressing put people off - but so does that way he carries himself. That dark, brooding knowledge that seems to follow him - a whisper that says; this man is involved in unpleasant business. And on the streets of Italy, that unpleasant business generally means only one thing. 

He feels the cold splash of water droplets on his skin before he realises that it’s begun to rain. He is not usually one who minds the rain - in the right circumstances, he finds walking alone in the rain quite peaceful - but these are not the right circumstances. The pavements are already growing slick as the rain gets heavier, and the people crowding all around him are searching for umbrellas, thrusting them up into the sky--

Risotto is taller than most men, and umbrellas are hardly the most social of accessories. Awkward points bite into his shoulders as people rush by him, their sights blinkered by the canvas above them, no longer concerned by what Risotto might be now that he’s not in their direct field of vision. As yet another umbrella - this one patterned with rainbows - connects with his chin, he’s forced to stop for a moment, his eyes scanning the street beside him to see if there’s somewhere that’s still open he might take shelter in. 

Ah. There. A softly lit pale blue shopfront, a hand-lettered sign flipped to “open!” in its window. Risotto grasps the handle and steps in (stooping a little when he realises how low the doorway is), a bell chiming out across the little room to announce that the shop has just received a customer. 

He takes a moment to breathe as he catalogues his surroundings. 

It is always a good idea for an assassin to know where he is. The moment his gaze flickers around the room, he’s able to put a name to the shop he ducked into for some solace from the rain and the barrage of umbrellas; this is Dolcezza, a little sweet shop that has been on this street for three years. By all accounts, it keeps a steady enough clientele, but it hardly brings in a large amount of money - which Risotto assumes is the only reason that the owner, an older man, has not been badgered or hounded about the protection fees he most certainly is not paying. 

It’s a nice place, Risotto thinks grudgingly, looking around. The walls are lined with jars of brightly coloured candies and sweet treats - a glass case at the front of the shop features some more specialised treats out in the open. Fudges and special chocolates and neatly packaged boxes of sweet assortments. There’s an open doorway, beside the cash register, where Risotto can see a large table and some silver specialised equipment and a figure in gloves and an apron bent over, clearly hard at work on the confections. A cash register sits on top of the wooden portion of the glass cabinet, and Risotto’s gaze falls upon that bit of technology, his eyes also meet the girl behind the cash register’s own wide stare. 

He is perfectly used to the flash of fear that he sees in her eyes. He sees it constantly in people on the street and sometimes when he is dragged into restaurants with other members of his team and when he goes out to buy his weekly shopping (he does this once a week, at the same store, and buys the same things). It’s to do with the set of his mouth and the ink and blood colour of his eyes - the girl behind the counter falters. She is pretty enough, he supposes, with dark hair and dark eyes and wearing a neat pinstriped dress that he supposes is a uniform of sorts. He doesn't really care about that. What he cares about is how she watches him warily, like a cat about to run if he gets too close or startles with sudden movements--

And he has spent his entire life with people being afraid of him, and sometimes the best way to cope with the knowledge you are feared is to take control of the room. He takes one slow, deliberate step towards the counter - and, like he knew she would, she jumps. 

“I-I’m s-so sorry, one moment!” She says in a babble, her voice running into one long continuous noise, and she scrambles through the large, open doorway and out of Risotto’s sight. He’s impressed that she managed to say anything, actually - still, how predictable. The smirk curves his full mouth before he can stop it, and he finishes walking towards the cash register, looking around the little place and amusing himself by imagining what kind of sweets he’d take for the rest of La Squadra. 

With any luck, the rain will have stopped before the worker has even had the courage to peek around the corner to see if he’s still there.

Sweet tobacco for Prosciutto, perhaps. The blue and white shark sweets that look like they have the most horrific texture for Pesci. Balls of bubble gum for Melone, who will pop them next to Ghiaccio’s ears to annoy the new recruit. Illuso . . . well, Risotto has never quite managed to get the measure of Illuso, who listens more than he speaks and regurgitates the gossip of other people instead of his own. Perhaps one of the small fudge assortments, to be safe. Gelato has a sweet tooth, and Sorbet indulges Gelato in everything - he’d take a bag of the heart-shaped marshmallows for those two. Apropos on account of them being lovers, which they have never bothered to hide--

He hears a raised voice from the other room, and then a figure stomps out - most certainly not the figure of the girl who had not been able to stomach his presence through her fear. And Risotto . . . well, at first, he does not know that he’s looking at his reason for living. His reward for all of the hardships he has endured. That comes later. 

All he knows is that when you look into his eyes, there isn’t a whit of fear reflected in yours, and he feels comforted and known and not like a monster for the first time in a long while. 

~

Elisa comes tearing into the back room, where you’re industriously cutting the fudge into perfect cubes, and looks like she’s seen a ghost. You sigh, raising yourself up - your father had hired Elisa after one of your last workers had gone on maternity leave, and you’d soon realised she was easily flustered and prone to making a drama out of things. You suppose that you’ll have to stay a little later tonight to make sure that the fudge is all finished - you don’t trust Elisa to do it, and at any rate, she’s not paid to do things like that.

“What’s wrong?” You ask her, keeping your temper. Shouting does nothing good, you’ve learnt. Your father might use a raised voice to get what he wants, but that just makes you even less likely to jump straight to righteous anger. “I heard a customer come in, but I didn’t hear one leave.”

She gasps a few times, her big brown eyes wide, until she hisses out;

“I can’t serve him!”

Him? You wonder if perhaps it might be an ex-boyfriend or an awkward crush, but Elisa looks far too rattled for it to be something that simple. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask, keeping your voice even. You and her are about the same age, but you know from the few friends you’ve managed to make in your life that people have a tendency to see you as the sensible one. The parental figure in any given situation. The one who keeps the rest of them calm. “Do you need me to go out and serve them?”

“No!” The response is instantaneous. She looks terrified. You wonder if this man has threatened her with a knife or something - this reaction seems over the top, even for someone like Elisa. “You can’t!”

“Elisa,” you say softly, pulling off the gloves that you were wearing for hygiene. “I’m sure he’s perfectly fine and civil. I’ll go speak to him.”

“I think he’s part of the Mafia! Of Passione!” Her words spill out all at once. 

You look at her, your forehead creasing in confusion.

“Elisa,” you say, very slowly and carefully. “What business would a mobster have in a sweet shop? Do you think he’s here to assassinate the lemon drops? Slit the throats of our barley twists?”

“You’ll see!” She insists. She’s trembling. “You shouldn’t go out there!”

You sigh softly, and you go out to see what all of the fuss is about. 

You understand when the man, stood by the cash register, his hands casually in his pockets, turns to look at you. You understand that perhaps Elisa was a little justified in being afraid of him; he stands well over six foot, his clothes . . . unusual, a scarred and muscled torso very prominently on display. His hair is pale and plastered to his forehead by the rain - but most striking of all are his eyes. Blood red irises and inky dark sclera, boring into your own gaze as you look up at his face (he’s handsome, you realise, and try and curtain the thought) and make sure that none of the brief flash of fear you do feel shows in your expression. 

Because even if he looks scary doesn’t mean he is. You know not to judge a book by its cover! And this man, you suppose, spends a lot of time being judged for his stature and his eyes and all of the things he can’t help, and you refuse to be a part of the problem. Part of you, too, wholeheartedly believes that a gangster would have no business in your father’s humble little sweet shop. 

You’d known when you’d rented this storefront that it was in an area controlled by Passione; when you’d spoken to your father, he’d assured you there was nothing to worry about - so you assume your father pays the protection dues he’s supposed to. There’s no reason for any member of Passione to step foot in here unless they were hankering for something to satisfy their sweet tooth! 

And if they are here to buy, they are a customer and not a gangster, and you intend to treat them simply as the former. Who are you to judge how one earns their bread?

“Get caught in the downpour?” You ask, cheerfully, taking your place behind the counter. “It looked pretty bad out there! I’m glad to be inside!”

You keep eye contact with him. You notice that he seems surprised, and you chalk it up to the fact that people probably don’t look into his eyes - you suppose they are a little unnerving, but the more you look at them the more ordinary they seem. Your smile does not fade a whit. 

“O-oh,” he says, and his voice is very deep and pleasant. You watch as the faintest dark flush creeps up his cheeks. “Yes. I dodged in to avoid the rain.”

You look at the clock on the wall.

“Oh dear,” you say, meaning it. You’re sympathetic; getting caught in an unexpected rain shower is bad at the worst of times, but this man appears to be in head to toe leather, and leather is never comfortable when damp. “And at this time, too! The roads are always so horribly busy with everyone getting home from work! I’m sorry you got caught up in that, Signore.”

He pauses before speaking, as if he’s really mulling over his words.

“I kept getting hit with umbrellas,” he grunts out, eventually. 

“Well, we never have too many customers around this time anyway,” you say, smiling. “I don’t mind at all if you ducked in for some reprieve from the showers! You’re welcome to stay and look around until it goes - it’s not very big, but my father and I make all of the sweets ourselves and we’re very proud of it!” You smile, and then, you wink at him. It feels like he needs a kindness, after Elisa ran out of here practically screaming. “If you want a sample of anything, just ask!”

He blinks at you, as if he can’t quite believe that you haven’t turned tail and run - and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I think I frightened the other girl,” he says, eventually - he does not sound exactly ashamed of it, but he does sound sorry. “I’m sorry if I caused any problems for you.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you say, lightly. “Elisa’s new here. She’s still getting to grips with everything, and I think she just got a little overwhelmed by--”

You hesitate. How do you tell this man that his very presence is intimidating? 

A smile breaks his mouth. 

“Yes,” he says. “I tend to have that effect.”

~

There is a smudge of flour - or some other powdery white substance used in baking, he knows it is not the powdery white substance he is most familiar with, at least - across the bridge of your nose, and keeping his eyes off it is proving to be a challenge. He wants to stare at your face for hours. He wants to memorise the shape of your eyes and your lips, covet the colour of your eyes - remember what it feels like to be looked at like a man and nothing more.

He’s not often lost for words, but in front of you, he finds himself faltering. It’s been so long since he has had a conversation that is just simply a conversation - even at the supermarket, the cashier looks up and looks down and scans his items without drawing attention to themselves, too fearful of whatever Risotto might do (even in the well-lit aisles of a public place, apparently) to do much else. You, though - you are before him, smile on your face, eyes directed at him, open warmth and sunniness diffusing everything you do. 

He didn’t intend to buy anything. He does not have much of a sweet tooth. He prefers the sour or the salty when it comes to consumables - but somehow, looking at your friendly open face, he cannot bring himself to leave empty-handed. Even though you had openly said you didn’t mind if he’d only come in to shelter from the rain (which he had done, after all), he does not want to disappoint you. There’s nobody else in the shop. How many customers have you had all day? 

If he buys something, and says he liked it . . . if he does that, that’s an excuse to come back in and see you again, isn’t it? 

It’s not that Risotto has a crush, he thinks - though now that he mentions it, he notices how pleasant he finds your colouring, how your curves and lines fill out your own uniform (pinstripes and aprons) so well, how he likes the way your hair is pulled out of your face - but rather that he wants, just for a few moments, to feel like he is being looked at as another person on the street. Before today, it had been a long time since he’d been allowed to feel normal. 

And if the price of feeling ordinary is a few bags of sweets and a lighter wallet, is that so high a price to pay?

And he could always buy things for his teammates!

He might not be planning on enjoying any delicacies himself, but if one of his teammates enjoys the treats . . . he smiles to himself at the sheer genius of his plan. 

“May I have some bags made up?” He asks you. “I’m afraid there are a few things I want, I’d rather keep them separate--”

“Of course, Sir!” You say, immediately brightening - even more! He didn’t think it was possible for that glow you had to get any brighter, but he’s proven wrong. “Are you buying some gifts, perhaps?”

“Yes,” he says, watching you reach behind the counter and put on a pair of thin plastic gloves. “Some gifts for my colleagues, we’ve just done rather well on a project.” He can’t stop watching your hands. He wonders how small they would look if he were to put his own beside them. If he were to take ahold of you.

(He does not say that the “project” he refers to is the murder of an influential government official whose demise had been reported this morning as due to a combination of old age and a rare blood disorder nobody had realised he’s had, one that caused a horrible iron deficiency. It’s much better that you don’t know that.)

“Oh!” You say, the smile not leaving your face, your eyes not leaving his. “I’m really happy for you! You must be a considerate boss, to want to buy everyone else presents! How many are you buying for? We have a couple of gift boxes and selections that might fit the bill, if you want to bring in a treat to share--”

“No,” Risotto says quickly, imagining the chaos that might break out if he were to provide a box for his teammates to pick and choose how they pleased. Ghiaccio would certainly accuse someone of having more than their fair share, and Prosciutto would berate Pesci for eating too many, and Gelato would definitely actually eat too many-- “I’ll get them all individual gifts, if you don’t mind.”

Your smile is infectious. Risotto isn’t certain when the last time the curve of his lips held this long. 

“That’s more than fine. I’ll make sure they’re all very nicely presented, don’t you worry about that! How many individual bags would you like?”

He pauses, counting in his head, partly not wanting you to move too far away from him and partly hypnotised by the tilt of your head and the colour of your eyes and the way your attention is focused solely on him. He’s used to not being seen - that’s his job description, after all. But you make being noticed seem . . .pleasant. Like it’s not something to be avoided at all costs. 

He’s grateful for the little game he played with himself earlier, assigning all of the sweets to members of his team. It means he doesn’t embarrass himself tripping over words and sounding unsure about what he wants, making you feel as though he’s incompetent - he watches as you take scoops out of the big impractical jars and pour them into sweet little striped paper bags, reaching behind you to pull out lengths of ribbon and cut them so they curl beautifully, neat little cards with the name of your shop attached to the shimmering tails--

You move so quickly and neatly and Risotto is duly impressed. He’d find this kind of work horribly dull; you seem to be having a good time, enjoying yourself as you tug on a ribbon that isn’t quite even and straighten the tag of Prosciutto’s sweet tobacco. He feels . . . warm, somehow, that you’re taking such care over the little bags of sweets, though he knows they can hardly be the most expensive things you sell. Risotto cannot afford the most expensive things you sell, he thinks, looking at the price of some of the chocolate assortments in satin boxes behind the glass. 

“There!” You say, stepping back and enjoying the neat sight of all eight bags of Risotto’s choice lined up on the counter. Risotto has to admit they look very neat and pretty - whilst he knows Ghiaccio will probably just tear into his bag of pretty pale blue peppermints, he hopes that Prosciutto or Illuso or someone will appreciate the work put into presentation. He knows he is - or perhaps he’s just admiring the one doing the presentation. Aren’t they the same thing, in the end? 

You tell him the total and Risotto fumbles for his wallet. It’s been a while since he paid for anything in cold hard cash - he has a fake bank card for things like groceries under a false name, but somehow he wants to ensure things here are more . . . personal. He hands over the money and his breath catches as your fingers brush his--

Did you feel that spark of electricity? That brief zip of excitement? 

“Which of them are for you?” You ask him, as if nothing has happened, waiting for your register to print his receipt. You’re thankful for your father’s insistence on pricing things in whole numbers - you’ve never had much of a brain for mathematics, and you’d felt somehow . . . discomfited by the way Risotto’s fingers had felt when they brushed your own. You’re glad to avoid touching him too much. 

“Oh.” He looks at you. “None of them are.”

You look at him, profiling him - and then, smiling, you tap your nose. You reach to one of the jars closest to you, filled with dark pinwheels the colour of this man’s scleras - you take a handful of them and pop them into one of the bags your father usually leaves for Halloween-time, black and white striped. 

“No charge,” you say, tying it with a neat little black bow. “I think you’ll like the licorice! You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys too much sweetness.” You drop it into the bag with the rest of Risotto’s purchases. “You should always allow yourself to indulge! You deserve a reward just as much as the rest of your team do!”

“I-- thank you, Signorina--”

You wave away his thanks, your cheeks pink, and Risotto decides right then and there he’s going to have to come back here, if only to see your face flush that colour once more. He knows you’re going to haunt his daydreams for days. That someone like you has existed so close to him for so long and he has been unaware. . .

“I hope you and your colleagues enjoy them!” You chirp. You point to the windows. “The rain’s stopped too! I was very glad to meet you, I hope I’ll see you again sometime--”

And you step away from him, turning your body towards the doorway, and Risotto is leaving before he shames himself by grabbing your shoulder and asking you to stay longer and just talk to him for a while. As he opens the door and the bell rings across the shop, he hears your voice:

“Elisa! He was perfectly nice, you were just being silly--”

Nice. 

He hasn’t heard that word ascribed to him in a long time. 

~ 

When Risotto hands Formaggio the prettily packaged parcel of sweets shaped like little cat faces, his subordinate looks up at him with wide eyes, as if trying to gauge whether or not Risotto is being serious about it. For one thing, gifts are not really a done thing among the members of La Squadra - for another, if Formaggio were to be handed confectionary, he would not have expected to be handed it by Risotto. Pesci, perhaps. Gelato, maybe - though he would hesitate eating anything given to him by Gelato. Illuso, maybe, if it were something elegant and not something twee--

But Risotto’s eyes are very focused and serious, so Formaggio takes the bag and drops out a confused thanks, and wonders if this is his capo’s way of poisoning him. He’s always imagined that Risotto would be sneakier than this, but maybe it’s one of those mafia honour things and he’s supposed to just eat it so that Risotto doesn’t kill him in a more painful way? Formaggio screws up his face looking down at it, and then watches as, across the room, Risotto stops Prosciutto. 

He picks out another bag of candy. Formaggio’s cat candy is tied with an orange bow; Prosciutto’s candy - Formaggio doesn’t know how to describe it, but it looks kind of like pale, sugary tobacco - is tied with a yellow one. Prosciutto looks down at it, and then back up at Risotto, and gives a halting thanks. 

A few hours later, Formaggio has ascertained that every member of La Squadra has been given a not-quite-identical bag. 

When Formaggio hesitantly puts forward that perhaps Risotto is going to kill them, Ghiaccio barks out angrily that their Capo would never do anything so stupid--

“I recognise this shop, anyway,” says Illuso, who is chewing a piece of fudge as he talks. Okay, maybe they’re not actually poisoned, then. “It’s down one of the main streets. Quaint little confectioner’s. Only been there a few years but seems to do okay business. I don’t know who owns it, but as far as I know it’s nobody who Passione or Risotto might have in their back pocket.”

Formaggio looks at the bag again, and, sighing, reaches in. His fingers close around one of the brightly coloured sweets, surprised by how hard it feels - he’d expected some kind of gummy sweet. Throwing it into his mouth, the hard candy immediately tastes sweet and warm and pleasant all at once. 

He crunches the sugar between his teeth loudly, because that is the kind of man that Formaggio is. Sorbet, across the table from Formaggio, wrinkles his nose and dutifully feeds Gelato another fluffy pink heart-shaped marshmallow. 

“Well?” Ghiaccio demands. “Are you going to die?”

Formaggio considers for a moment. Sweet strawberry aftertaste lingers between his teeth. None of the rest of his teammates who have professed they’ve already eaten some of their ‘gifts’ appear to have dropped dead where they stand yet. 

“Nah,” he says, eventually. “Don’t think I’m gonna kick the bucket any time soon. These are real good, by the way.”

“Mm,” says Melone, who pops another brightly coloured gumball into his mouth. Formaggio has heard the bubbles popping for most of the night - as Melone does it, a vein in Ghiaccio’s forehead visibly twitches. The blue haired man already looks like he’s teetering on the edge of collapse - Formaggio supposes he did not enjoy the use of the phrase ‘kick the bucket’. Ghiaccio can be a real uptight asshole. “We should ask Risotto to be rewarded like this every time a hit goes well. Really makes us feel like a team, don’t you think? I’ll give you one of mine if you’ll let me try one of yours.”

Formaggio laughs, flicking one of his cat candies across the table and catching Melone’s tossed gumball with grace, sweeping a low bow. There’s a brief hubbub on the table as Formaggio walks away, probably about who’s being allowed to try some of whose candy, and Formaggio is smirking at the chaos he’s caused as he goes to find Risotto. 

He really wouldn’t mind some more of these, actually. 

He slips it into conversation with Risotto a few days later, expecting to be rebuffed immediately - the whole thing was already so out of character for their quiet, impassable leader - but he’s surprised when Risotto doesn’t tell him to be grateful for what he has. If Formaggio didn’t know Risotto so well, he’d say that the veil that fell over Risotto’s gaze was almost . . . fond. Longing. 

After a moment, Risotto speaks. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The statement is vague, without making any promises - and yet Risotto’s tone sends a shiver down Formaggio’s spine. Formaggio himself has never been the kind of man who makes a plan and sticks to it - if Formaggio gets what he wants, it’s usually because of pure luck. But when Risotto speaks, even to say something so up in the air . . .

Formaggio gets the impression he’ll definitely be getting more of the prettily decorated bags from the confectioner’s down the main street. 

And for some reason, that certainty leaves him feeling unsettled. 

~

Risotto is a careful man. He goes into the store that you work at once or twice a week; though he quickly memorises your schedule, he makes sure to pop in every so often when you’re not working. Once, he is served by Elisa, who looks at him with wide eyes and shaking fingers and jumps when the bell rings and another customer walks in. She’s clearly been told by you that Risotto is no threat, and yet she cannot shake that human nature: fear that which you do not think you could outrun or outsmart. Risotto does not smile at her. 

Likewise, he does not smile at the older man who is working one Tuesday morning when he enters the candy-scented room to buy himself some more of the licorice. You had been right; he wasn’t a sweet kind of man, but he found himself enjoying the licorice you’d picked out for him immensely. He likes the salt and the chew of the black cables - sometimes, biting into them feels like stress relief. 

This man, he assumes, is your father. He does not treat Risotto badly by any means, but Risotto sees the way that your father looks at him distrustfully and sees that he gets much less licorice in the bag than when you (or even Elisa) weigh out the contents. 

It’s a pity, he thinks, you had to have a man like that for a father. 

When he does get to see you, it feels like all of his troubles are lifted at once. 

He had become used to the feeling of carrying all of his burdens around his heart like iron chains. He had accepted that was his lot in his life; he had accepted he was going to feel like he was drowning until he was murdered in a back alley after becoming too cocky with his stand. He hadn’t realised how bad that feeling had gotten until you’d smiled and winked and given him free candy out of the good of your heart and not because you were afraid of him, smudge on your nose and all. 

He supposes, surrounded by other men who kill for money, he had not realised that some people were just inherently good. 

Well. Perhaps not some people. In his experience, you are the exception that proves the rule. 

And that you are reduced to being a confectioner in your father’s business and working behind a cash register, doing mindless things like measuring out grams and tying ribbons makes him ache in the middle of his chest. Someone like you deserves the world. Risotto does not dislike himself - but he does not like himself either. His body is simply the prison that he lives in. Other people whisper behind their hands about what Risotto might do with a face and a body like that, what blood might stain his past, what he might do if he were given an inch of leeway and they were to take their gaze from him for just a moment--

But you do not do that. You smile at him and always put an extra scoop of the sweets into whatever he orders (Prosciutto does not like the sweet tobacco; he asks for one of the beautifully decorated boxes of candy cigarettes, and you put three into his paper bag, telling him nobody ever really buys them anyway). You ask him banal questions about his day like he’s an ordinary man. 

Once, angry about the man’s conduct on their last ‘project’,  he lets slip Melone’s name. He curses himself in the back of his brain, hating that he’s made himself vulnerable - but when, a few weeks later, you ask about whether Melone has calmed down any yet, any fear he had about you misusing the new information floats away like dust on the wind - you are simply a wonderful person who remembers things that you are told. Who cares about his life, though nobody else ever has. 

Risotto sees little things about you. Every day, he learns something new. He learns that you have no particular interest in sweet-making, but your father did not trust easily (this comes as no surprise to Risotto, even with his limited interactions with the man). He learns that you still live at home. You mention that you walk through one of the shittier neighbourhoods to get there, and that is enough for Risotto to draw a brief sketch in his mind of where you might reside--

He learns other things, too. He’s not surprised by your gentle kindnesses, but they still hit him full force in the chest whenever he gets to see one. 

It is not just him you give extra portions to, after all. Small children who come in and laboriously count out their money onto the glass, the tap-tap-tap echoing in Risotto’s brain, are rewarded with you exclaiming about how good they are with numbers and a few extra scoops of whatever sweet thing they’re hankering over. A few times, when you and he have been chatting, you’ve slipped him one of the licorice pinwheels from the jar whilst you chewed on your own delicacy of choice. 

(“Almost nobody ever buys the licorice!” You tell him, laughing. “You’re doing me a favour by eating some, really!”)

Once, a little girl comes in, sniffling. It transpires she has lost her mother in the hubbub of a busy Friday evening, and you talk to her softly and gently and fetch a chair from out of the backroom for her to sit on. You amuse her by telling her about a time you got separated from your father when you were a small child, and you give her one of the brightly coloured lollipops decorated with rainbow swirls from your display cabinet. 

When her mother eventually flies into the shop in a tizzy, she is grateful to you - and more, she’s grateful to Risotto, her eyes not once straying to his peculiar clothes or his strange eyes. To him, she is just one of the two people in this little confectioners who helped keep the light of her life safe, and her eyes are full of happy tears when she gives him a quick hug--

He doesn’t remember the last time somebody hugged him. 

Just another example of your bright sunshine rubbing off on him. When somebody is by you, he thinks, they cease to be just themselves - they are lent some of your warmth and sweetness and are made all the better for it. A little voice in the back of his brain, gnawing viciously at the knot in his chest that forms whenever you smile at him, whispers that nobody else deserves this. You are too good for this world. You must be protected and kept safe and guided away from the evils of the universe--

You give a little boy and his even younger sister who come in to browse - and admit shyly, sadness in their eyes, that they have no money, and just enjoy the colours and the smells and being surrounded by delicious things so they can imagine how they might taste - a bag made up of two sweets from every jar in the shop. 

“Don’t you lose money?” He can’t resist asking you, after the children have exchanged wide eyed looks as if they cannot believe their fortune and ran out of the door, babbling impassioned thanks. “Giving things out for free like that?”

You meet Risotto’s eyes - and in them, you see that worry that the extra sweets and the free things you slip into this man’s orders have been a burden on you - and you shake your head. 

“You never lose money on kindness,” you tell him, and Risotto remembers that for days afterwards. No.The world doesn’t deserve you. Somebody is going to take advantage of you. That voice - the one he has never been good at ignoring, the one that leads him to splattering brains on the pavement with a handgun before he turned twenty - whispers that the only place you will be safe is with him. Risotto believes it. 

He believes it even more when one night he has dropped in to buy Formaggio some of his cat candy, and you and your father are arguing in hushed whispers in the back room. You see him, and go to greet him and ask him what he wants tonight--

And your father reaches out, hands encircling your wrist, dragging you to face him too close and hissing something that, if Risotto were not intimately acquainted with listening to conversations he is not supposed to, he would have missed. 

“You’re going to bankrupt us--”

“It’s just a few sweets--”

“They’re my sweets. You’re fucking lucky you have a job at all, you ungrateful little--”

Risotto steps forward, and your father - like the coward he is - falls silent. He looks up at the imposing six foot something man with muscles the size of his head and cannot think of anything to say. Risotto’s voice is low, like the rumbling purr of a motorcycle engine when he speaks;

“Is there a problem here?” 

Your father blinks up, and you look at Risotto like he has saved you from a very dark fate - and Risotto cannot help but love that look of relief and adoration on your face. 

“No problem,” your father mumbles, and scurries away back into the other room, tail tucked firmly between his legs. 

Risotto turns his gaze on you. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, sensing that you’re about to cry or do something worse. He looks at the way you cradle your wrist protectively in one gloved hand and wonders if it’s the first time your father has ever laid his hands on you - for your father’s sake, Risotto hopes it is. He cannot describe what he would do to anyone who would hurt you more than this. 

He wants to take you away then, as you right yourself and wipe at your eyes and summon a smile for him - ever the sunny one, even when your world is raining. He envies and loves that about you. But he cannot. Not yet. 

He must plan slowly. He must earn your trust. Risotto does not rush into things. 

~

Risotto has his responsibilities. He longs to be able to devote every moment of every day to you; he wants to watch you wake up and see sunlight dapple your beautiful face, wants to see you sleep-tousled and soft in the morning. He wants to walk beside you on your way to work. He wants to cook you dinner. He wants to hold you in his arms and never let go. He wants to lock you up so that soft prettiness you have and that sweet sunshine can only be gazed upon by him and people he thinks deserves you. He wants to chain you up and keep you safe so that you might never have to interact with people who do not deserve you ever again. 

But he can’t. Not yet. 

For now, he tries to keep his longing sated by dropping into the sweet shop whenever he can. He prefers early mornings and late evenings - when you are more likely to be alone, and the shop is most likely to be quiet. He’s walked you home from your shift once, when you’d sighed that it was raining and you hadn’t brought an umbrella--

(“I owe you for the first time,” Risotto had grunted - and you, who have come to be fond of this over-protective huge man in the way one is fond of an awkward older brother, allow it. You know about your basic stranger safety - but Risotto has been so loyal in the past few months, and he’d stopped your father from shouting, and he’s never been weird or creepy towards you. You can’t help but think the man is just lonely - so you accept the proposal, although you don’t let him walk you any further than the top of your street.)

Sometimes, he lets Metallica out, and he blends into the walls behind him, and he watches you go home. He follows you and watches you go into your shitty little house that you’d tried so hard to keep a secret from him - he thinks you must be ashamed of it. The front door looks as though it’s been kicked in once or twice. The flower garden out front has gone wild. The windows are grimy, and one is smashed. The sweet shop cannot be doing so well, then. 

It’s alright, he thinks to himself. When you and he have your future together, he’ll make sure the house is perfect. You will not have to worry about vandals or criminals. You won’t walk down a street to get home that is lined with used needles and empty bottles. 

He finds out, coincidentally, it is not the first time your father has laid hands on you, and he aches for justice. That anyone would have the nerve to hurt you! That anyone could try and dull that sparkle or rain on that sunshine! 

Risotto knows he is not a good man - but he knows you are good, good, gooder than any person has a right to be. If you are his, perhaps some of your goodness will rub off on him - and if it does not, at least he will be able to ensure that you never lose it. 

It’s enraging. 

And though he promised himself he would wait . . . well. Patient men who can control themselves do not end up the capo of La Squadra. They do not end up in Passione’s employ. They do not develop stands that are suited for nothing so much as death--

And he thinks about how your father does not pay Passione’s protection fees. He thinks about how your father clearly thinks he is too good for that - thinks he is too good for you, though Risotto knows that is the opposite of the truth. His stomach and his brain and his bloodlust roar with anger, for the world to be set to rights, for your father to pay for his transgressions. 

And Risotto Nero, capo of La Squadra di Esecuzione, fool who has fallen irrevocably in love - he sets the cogs turning, and his plan in motion. 

~

It’s early Tuesday morning and you’re opening the shop today. Your father stayed late last night - when you’d woken up, he was still not in, and you assume he’s spent all night working. He does, sometimes, when he’s concocting some new flavour or messing around with some new way of doing things when the old ways have sufficed perfectly well for hundreds of years. 

You do not share your father’s passion for the art of confectionery. You’re only working this job because he hadn’t been able to find anyone else he trusted with the machines and the shop - though you do not want to spend the rest of your life here, he always guilt trips you when you mention moving away, and you’ve accepted you’re going to be stuck here for eternity. Your feet are dragging on the ground, putting off the inexorable boredom of working something you do not care about, when you hear a voice behind you. 

“You’re late today.”

It’s faintly amused - low and deep, and you turn and see Risotto. 

(You’d laughed at his name and he’d laughed too at your reaction. It’s one of the few times you’ve heard him laugh, and you wish he did it more. He always seems so serious. You feel awfully sorry for him.)

“Just putting off the daily grind,” you tell him, slowing down so he can fall into step beside you. You trust Risotto, insomuch as one can trust a customer. “Are you stopping by for something?”

“Ah,” Risotto says. “Melone has ran out of those cinnamon candies shaped like women’s mouths.”

You nod. Melone is one of Risotto’s colleagues; one of the ones he mentions a lot. You think that Melone is a ladies man, a flirt, and someone who evidently does not take his job half as seriously as Risotto himself. 

“Well,” you say, smiling still. It’s nice to talk to him. “You’re welcome to come in and wait whilst I get the shop ready, as long as you promise not to nab any of our licorice whilst my father is watching! He never came home last night, so I can only assume he’s been at the table in the back like a mad scientist.”

Risotto holds up his hand - you can’t help but notice how big they are. Sometimes, little flashes like that remind you of why Elisa was scared of him. He hasn’t eased up on showing off the skin or the black leather or the intense eyes - still, you know not to judge a book by its cover. You’re glad that you hadn’t, when it came to Risotto. You look forward to him coming in. He feels like a friend. 

“On my honour,” he says, and you laugh - and then, abruptly, the laugh dies in your throat. 

The glass door is smashed. Your neatly written sign lays on the floor, “Closed” side up. Your lip wobbles as you look down, and Risotto breathes in sharply as he sees what’s given you pause. 

“Be careful,” he intones, lowly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“My dad--”

You step up into the building, eyes flying around the room. The jars of candies are in disarray. The bonbons are on the floor, where they must have rolled when their jar came crashing down - all around you are shards of both glass and of brightly coloured hard sugars. 

The devastation of the main floor of the shop is not what worries you, though. 

Not even the cash register, emptied onto the floor, the drawer a little way away from the body of the thing with what is clearly absolutely no money in it, makes you worry as much as the red substance that is smeared across the tiles beneath you. 

“Oh, dio mio--” you whisper, your heart beating double time in your chest. 

You turn to see that Risotto has followed you into the shop, his eyes taking in the scene around him, his shoulders hunched. He sees you looking. 

“Do you want me to wait outside?” He asks, and you feel a pang in your chest. “I’ll stay, if you need me--”

If whoever did this is still here, you think, you might find yourself glad of the offer. You nod at him, trying to force past the lump in your throat to produce anything that comes close to being intelligible. 

“Please,” you whisper, and Risotto nods and comes to stand behind you. Together, you two advance past the chaos of the shop, through the scattered sweets and the glass jars and the ribbons and bags that have been disturbed during whatever tussle took place here. You two creep through the doorway - and when you see it, your breath catches in your throat and you think for a moment you’re going to scream. 

Your father is on the floor. His chest is moving, but its faint - your eyes are drawn to the blood around his head, haloing him like he’s an angel. You have often disliked your father, hated him even - but seeing him like this still makes you feel like bile is rising in your throat. 

“Wh-who would do this?” You whisper, your hands shaking. Risotto moves slowly and carefully, inching past you (you don’t notice how warm his body is or how hard it is in your grief, though Risotto notices how soft you feel against him). He picks something up from the big wooden-and-metal table you use for rolling out hot sugar and cutting fudges and all of those things. 

(You won’t be using it for those for a while, you think. It’s horribly unsanitary now! The very thought makes manic laughter bubble to your lips, though when it comes out it just sounds like great gulps of air). 

“Passione,” Risotto says, his voice flat. He hands you whatever it is he’s holding; with shaking hands, you take the matte black calling card. There is no name on it; just a fancy design, etched in the cardstock so that you can only see it when you tip it to the light. “This is . . . their symbol.”

You know about Passione. Of course you know about Passione!

“B-but--”

“I can only assume he didn’t pay protection fees,” Risotto says. You’re grateful for the monotone way he’s speaking to you, the slow enunciation - you’re not sure if you could take emotion right now. Not when your heart is beating so frightened against your ribcage. Not when you can’t breathe. Not . . . not now. 

“I--”

“Do you need me to call someone?” 

Risotto’s voice sounds very far away. 

He repeats your name. 

“There must be someone,” he says.

Someone. 

Your father’s unconscious body. 

An ambulance, perhaps. 

But if it’s Passione related. . .

You speak, and just like Risotto’s voice, your own sounds very far away. 

“My fiancé,” you manage to say. “He’ll know what to do.”

Oh. 

You don’t know that saying this is a mistake. 

You don’t know that Risotto’s heart feels like it’s turning upside down. 

You don’t know what’s about to happen.

Poor you. 

If only you had.

~ 

Risotto has followed you and watched you and dreamt about you, tossing and turning in his sheets, wishing you were there to hold onto. He has seen your home, seen your family, seen you walk to and from work and talked to you more than he’s ever talked to anybody he wasn’t supposed to either work with or kill. And he’s never come across even the slightest mention of a fiancé. You’ve never implied that there was anyone in your life! 

His heart is vibrating. His throat is dry. His fingers twitch idly. You look up at him, eyes wide, lip trembling--

There’s a cut on your hand. You must have brushed against one of the cracked or broken jars. Risotto’s eyes fixate on the bead of dark red--

Nobody but you has ever seen him as anything but a monster. 

Nobody has ever seen past the dark storm clouds in his heart - nobody has ever even tried! You’d walked into his life, all sweetness and sweet foods and laughter and treating and touching him like he was just another human, no thoughts as to whether he was involved in shady business or whether he’d ever been at the other end of a gun. He’d seen your smiles and your laughter and the light in your eyes and thought he was getting somewhere!

Something in him snaps. 

If you’ve never mentioned a fiancé before, perhaps it’s not something you want. Perhaps it’s someone you’ve felt indebted to, like working for your father - oh, Risotto can see that easily. You’re such a bleeding heart. Too gentle and too kind for your own good, never the kind to want to upset someone. 

If that’s it, he thinks, he’s doing you a favour - and he thinks of his car, parked one block away. He thinks of the tinted windows. He thinks of his house, on the outskirts of the city. 

Doing you a favour. Taking you away from all of this. Keeping your light safe and bright and making sure nothing ever dims it. 

He crooks a finger, and you blink, woozy on your feet suddenly. The little faces of his Metallica peek out from the cut on your hand, and he imagines them in your bloodstream even now. He imagines them melding together, taking the iron flowing through you (even your blood is pretty, he thinks, as you make a distressed noise and reach out for him and he steps towards you) - and he visualises the iron disk blocking your windpipe. Your hands clutch uselessly at your throat, eyes widening and closing, a horrific noise falling from your lips--

(Oh, he’s glad he’ll only have to hear that once. You should never be in pain.)

And your eyes flutter closed, your body falling heavy into Risotto’s arms. 

Risotto is more than strong enough to carry you out of the door. A passerby sees him and you - Risotto calls out to her, and she ducks her head, not wanting to attract attention. Risotto is used to that. Risotto is used to being hurried past. Risotto has never considered it a right for people to treat him as they treat other human beings. 

“I’m going to the hospital,” he calls out, even though the woman clearly does not want to know. “Passed out.”

She hurries past, and Risotto carries your body to his car. It’s still early in the morning. Nobody but that lady is around to watch the man take your body and bundle it into the back seat. 

He eases the disk away, but continues to pull iron from your bloodstream. Better for you to be dizzy and unconscious and unaware whilst he takes you away. He doesn’t want you pounding on the doors of his car and attracting attention - or worse, realising where you two are going well enough to find your way back. 

Somebody else will deal with the mess in Dolcezza. You - beautiful, wonderful, lovely you - will never have to worry about cleaning up after your father again. 

He drives. He thinks about how safe you will be in his home. He thinks about coming home to you after a hard mission - he thinks about how your hands will feel on his shoulders, how your smile will warm his cold heart. He thinks about the brush of your lips on his - he wonders if you taste as sweet as the things you make. He thinks about your skin hot against his whilst he’s asleep, your head on his chest. 

Risotto has never entertained thoughts of a domestic life before - he’s never thought he’d ever find anyone to share it with. He’s been thrown his fair share of admiring looks, of course, but he’s seen the darkest parts of the world. Most people disgust him. 

But not you. 

You stir, groaning, and Risotto uses Metallica to draw more iron from you until your breathing evens out. 

Nearly home, he thinks - he feels almost giddy when the thought flickers in his brain. He has always thought of it as his house. It has never been a home - but with you there, in his bed, in his arms, in the kitchen or the living room or anywhere at all . . . with you there, it is certainly a home. 

One of his neighbours is out, a hosepipe in his hands. Risotto takes a moment to remember his name. Clemente. He is old and infirm - even now, he stoops, watering his garden. 

Risotto does not need to think twice. He parks his car neatly and goes to the back door, opening it to scoop you out - and Clemente looks at the man he has lived next to but never spoken to because he is too afraid, and puts the pieces together. 

Before he can scream, there are razor-blades in his throat and knives in his wrists and needles in the vital arteries pumping blood to his heart. Risotto is strong enough to drag the body to his door with one hand and support you with his other arm. 

It is not exactly a spur of the moment decision, really. Risotto thinks as he locks the door to his house behind him and carries you up the stairs, leaving the still gasping but far too weakened to move Clemente in the hallway to bleed out. 

It makes sense, Risotto tells himself, that you might be afraid at first. You do not know Risotto Nero that well. You have only ever known your life with your father. You are leaving behind all of those other people who ate at your time and basked in the glow of you that they did not deserve. He expects an acclimatisation period. 

And with fear, he knows, comes a desire to escape. He is not so selfish as to think you will not try. Risotto is a smart man. He drops you on the bed carefully, making sure your head is cushioned by soft pillows. He goes down the stairs to fetch Clemente - with the man’s body, he is far less careful, his fetching a drag. 

Clemente’s blood bubbles from his mouth, but that is unimportant. Risotto will dispose of the corpse later. 

The iron in Clemente’s body does well for forming the shutters over the window - it blocks out the natural light, but Risotto has lamps - and the light of your smile and your laugh and your voice will be enough for him. In time, perhaps you’ll win the light back. But for now, the windows are too much of a risk. 

He uses more iron to make the caged bars that come down outside and inside of the door - inside first, and a key. There is just enough left in Clemente to make the outside cage - and then Risotto is left with a shrivelled corpse. He’ll deal with that at a different time, by cover of night - he knows all of the best places in the city for such things. He has used them plenty of times. If worst comes to worst, he will take the corpse in his car to the rest of his gang and ask Illuso to toss him in a river in the mirror world. It will hardly be the first time the other man has dealt with clean-up detail. 

Iron shutters. Two locks. The bars too strong and thick to bend. 

Yes. 

He knows this will be the best for you. 

You will be away from the life that you never wanted. You will be with him - you’ll love him, Risotto is sure of it. 

No. 

You already love him! For if you do not love him, how could you bear to look into his eyes? Why would you laugh like a silvery bell when he tries to tell a joke? Why would you trail your fingers across his hand just so when you hand him his goods and his change? Why would you talk to him and not run from the blackness and the evil and the rot inside him? 

You must love him. You’ll realise you love him. 

His teammates will miss the sweets, of course. Risotto will miss his licorice. 

But that’s a small price to pay for the sweetness of your body and your mind and you, every day to come home to for the rest of your life. 

Click. Clank. Click. Clank. Click. Clank. 

He is alone in the room with you, the doors secured, no light creeping in through the iron shutters on the windows. He approaches the bed - and brave now that you and he are finally alone, he leans down and smoothes a kiss over your forehead. He lets the iron drain slowly back into your body. 

Any minute now, you will come back around. 

Any minute now, Risotto will be able to introduce you to your new life. Show you your new room. Whisper to you about the future he has already built in his head for the two of you - a rose-tinted future he’d never have been able to even imagine had you not smiled at him and given him those free licorice pinwheels. Had you not had sparkling eyes and a smudge on your nose and the sweetest laugh he had ever heard--

Oh. 

He can hardly wait. 

[kosmosian-quills]

Camp NaNo - Day 6

I hope everyone is doing well! Sorry for the lack of updates, I have been having something of a rough time with family at the moment but I’ve been trying to keep on top of writing at least.

Anyway, this is a direct follow-up to the drabble I posted on Day 1. I used (and edited) a small portion of the Week 2 Backstory drabble I did for Anjelika, because I could make it fit :)

I hope you enjoy!

Why is it that whenever I enter a room, the smiles fade and the laughter dies?

It’s every time, without fail, and I can only feel immense jealousy at the thought that they are laughing. Smiling. Enjoying their time together and my absence is the only reason they are able to do so.

It has been three weeks since they moved here to work for me, and have done their jobs as required of them, but they all seem rather reserved, keeping to themselves. I’m not surprised, or rather, I shouldn’t be. They’re away from home, probably for the first time in their lives, and in a very hands on job that they were chosen for. It must be intimidating, for them to leave their family and friends behind like that.

At least, that’s what I thought was happening. I thought that all I was seeing was the whole story. But as I should know by now, it never is.

I can hear them from where I stand, behind the cold wooden door. My hand is poised just an inch away from it, but I daren’t knock. I just freeze in place, listening to the conversation on the other side of that door. It’s Zofia’s bedroom, but she isn’t in there alone. It sounds like the other four are in there too.

I want to go in there and join them, I want to know what they’re laughing at, I want to know what makes them so happy.

But I can’t.

I just know that it will stop the moment I do, and it will only deepen the rift between us. I can’t help it, though. I would like to be a part of that, a part of their normal conversations. All of mine are some kind of script, whether I like it or not.

I want to go and be with them, but I just… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how.

I concede defeat here, and soundlessly walk back to my room, closing the door behind me, leaving me feeling more alone than I have ever felt in my life.

I like to think that I have a good relationship with my father. He trusts me, he treats me like an adult, and involves me in some matters regarding the running of a country.

Today, we’re having lunch together and discussing such matters. Nothing too outlandish or problematic. Thankfully trivial matters. Easily solved matters - the regenerative projects in wildlife conservation sites.

Father is a good man, I believe, doing what he can for the betterment of our citizens. It’s not an easy job for him, and I should know based on what I have been studying under him.

He’s not a young man anymore. Nearly in his 50’s now, and that was certainly clear in his face, yet his appearance still maintained the dignity and vigour of his younger years. His dark brown hair thinning out with wisps of grey sneaking through.

He’s sat as perfectly postured as he usually is, spine straight yet leaned forwards towards the desk, looking over his documents with me. The various files and reports of the non-urgent matters that need dealing with.

Someone outside knocks on the door, and father calls to them. “Come in,” in that commanding tone he’s used to

I take a sip of my tea as the door swings open, and in steps one of my father’s most trusted advisers.

General Gniewek was rather like father, certainly not far behind in his age, but he was a soldier for many years before ascending the ranks to become my father’s military adviser. I personally see no need for him. We aren’t at war, and don’t ever want to be. We are only a small island, after all, antagonising another country would be suicide.

The General was tall, well built and you could tell he still partakes in exercises to maintain his fitness. Well, he needs it I suppose, as a military man. His dark green coat with golden shoulder pads and the little stars on the lapel of his jacket, all fine intricacies that really show what he has done for this country.

“Your Majesties,” he stands by the door for a moment, saluting us with his cap tucked under one of his arms.

My father acknowledges him, and bids him to approach.

Just because I see no reason for his job, does not mean that I don’t respect him and his loyalty to my father. I nod as he approaches. I have no reason to speak with him, just as he has no reason to speak to me. Well, I think, anyway.

“How are things, General?”

“Personally or professionally, your majesty?”

Father chuckles. “Well, both, I suppose. At ease.”

“Things are good, personally. I have a few concerns, however, that I feel need to be addressed, your majesty.” He tells us, looking right at my father, with him still stood across the desk from us.

I put my teacup down on the saucer, and wait for him to continue.

“Like what, General?”

“I have received multiple reports that there is growing dissent among the population regarding the Royal Family. People are wondering what you even do in this day and age, as opposed to the democratic leaders.”

I shortly look over at my father. This is certainly worrisome to me, at least a little, because this is indeed the kind of thing that father needs me to be aware of. This is a problem that will pass to me if not dealt with, but how to deal with it is a mystery to me. I don’t know how on earth I would start to deal with this.

“And there has been a slow rise in hate groups in the last month. Not many, but if this is allowed to fester things will get worse.”

Father looks across at me, and I look back at him, waiting for his response.

“You know, General, I believe my daughter could be of some use to us, here,” he says, adjusting his seated position slightly.

I feel my voice catch in my throat, and stammer, “m-me, father?” I don’t know what he has planned, but I am now definitely very worried indeed.

“Please, do tell, your Majesty.”

Father turns aside to face me, almost disregarding what the General said to him. “How are things with your Maidens of Honour, Anjelika?”

I frown a little, puzzled at the question, and answer slowly, hesitantly. Where is he going with this? “Unclear, father.”

“Well, the way I see it, we need some way to improve our public standing and image, correct?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, but does pause for an ever so brief moment before continuing. “You should do well-meaning public appearances with your Maidens of Honour. Act like their friend. Make our image a little more promising. And besides… you’re going to be the Queen one day, the public should see and get to know more about who exactly that Queen is going to be. Give them confidence, faith that the future is in very good hands for them.”

I think I understand his reasoning. It’s not without logic, certainly. It would be a nice way to get to know them, too, since I spent most of the last few nights wondering how to do that.

“So, you want me to make friends with my Maidens of Honour, father?” I ask him, slowly, making sure I understand what he was asking of me.

“Not necessarily, Anjelika. They are your companions, but I certainly don’t expect you to be real friends with them.”

“But you just said that you want me to be their friend…”

“Your highness,” the General interrupts me. “Your father’s idea is sound, but he does not require you to become close with your Maidens of Honour. Simply act like it.”

Act like it.

Make a big lie out of our relationship?

Make it all a fraud?

That seems… disingenuous. It seems wrong. I don’t want to lie to them. Until now, I wanted to really become their friend, but to be told to fake the relationship for the betterment of my father - of me - seems like a terrible thing for me to do. It won’t be real, what if they think it is?

How do they think I should even do this? What should I… what should I do?

“Put on an act, for the public, and things will be far easier for everyone. Do you understand me, Anjelika?”

I look down at my hands, wondering just how he wants me to do this. It seems so, so wrong, I don’t like this idea at all.

“Yes, father,” I reply, looking back up at him, “I will.”

I don’t even listen to the pair of them now, what they’re talking about in there. It just doesn’t seem real at all. What they’re asking of me. Did father ever do this with his Grooms of the Stole? Lead them on a hunt for a friendship that was never real to begin with? I can’t believe it, honestly.

I was struggling to think of ways to even approach my Maidens on a normal day, so how on earth am I supposed to make a fake friendship when I don’t even know what a real one is?

I suddenly remembered the letter I was delivered this morning. How Irena had delivered it with a straight face and a curtsy. The thick parchment, my name in loopy calligraphy, and the contents that made my chest feel so much lighter. I know exactly who wrote it to me without even opening it, and inside was an invitation. To go see them, so go back home.

Perhaps my grandfather has an idea for what to do here.

[luxusnoname]

A Long Forgotten Ache, Pt.1 (Xigbar/Vexen)

Summary: Being a Nobody is easy without all of those messy emotions weighing you down. Still, Xigbar gets to thinking and maybe he misses it a little. Or, rather, he misses someone. But he never goes about things in a straightforward way. The first half of a two part fic.

Characters/Pairings: Xigbar/Vexen

Rating: T (swears, fighting & some blood, nbd)

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Part two is technically done, but I definitely want to do some quality edits before posting. Both parts were actually written last year with inktober prompts, but ended up fitting together nicely as one story. I made a lot of improvements to this portion and want the continuation to be on that same level. So in the meantime… Happy 2/4 ^^

~~~

A Long Forgotten Ache

When Xemnas asked Xigbar who he wanted with him on a recon mission in a world with no magic, the freeshooter was perhaps too quick to volunteer Vexen. He could tell that answer wasn’t exactly what the Superior expected.

“Are you… Quite sure? You wouldn’t rather have Xaldin or Lexaeus accompany you?”

“Look, I know he’s the resident egghead and not exactly our best fighter, but he’s the only one around here with an eye as sharp as mine. Well, almost.” Xigbar grinned and pointed to his good eye to reinforce the point. “Yeah the other two have brute strength, but I could really use his intuition on this one.”

That, of course, was only part of the reason. Vexen was also incredibly fun to agitate. The rise he could get out of him wasn’t the same as it used to be, but it was better than anyone else in the Organization. Plus, they hadn’t spent much time together since becoming Nobodies. He would lie if he wasn’t a little curious as to how much of Even was still left. But personal curiosity and entertainment didn’t make for a good argument, so he said nothing more.

Xemnas hummed to himself, considering. “I suppose that would work. But see to it that he’s capable of defending himself without his magic, should there be any difficulties on the mission. You’ll depart at the end of the week.”

Xigbar gave a flippant salute as he summoned a corridor to the academic’s lab. “You got it, boss.”

As expected, Vexen was less than pleased with Xigbar’s request. Something about his talents being best utilized for research, having no interest in a fruitless recon mission, and honestly Xigbar kinda stopped listening at that point because it turned into a full on laundry list of reasons why he had better things to do and he would not be wasting his time with this.

“See, but here’s the thing,” Xigbar cut in a few minutes into the scientist’s rant, knowing full well he’d be there all day otherwise.  “I’m not just asking you politely. These are orders straight from the top.”

Vexen sputtered, nearly dropping his beaker full of who knows what chemical. “Lord Xemnas himself picked me for this assignment?”

“Well, I made a case for you but yeah, boss man’s orders.”

Vexen finally turned from his experiment and narrowed his eyes at the freeshooter. “If you made a case for me, then I suppose my only way of getting out of this is to make a case against myself. Provided, of course, that’s an option.”

“Heh, you’re welcome to give it a shot,” Xigbar shrugged, “be my guest. But I really doubt he’s gonna budge on this one. I was pretty convincing.”

“We’ll see about that…”

In the next morning’s meeting, Vexen made his case. Or, rather, he tried to make his case. It had only been five minutes and most of the Organization was tuning out. Luxord shuffled and cut his deck, starting up another game of solitaire. Xaldin leaned back in his seat, appearing to nap with his eyes closed. Zexion rolled his eyes as the others quietly chatted amongst themselves. Eventually Xemnas cleared his throat, interrupting the academic and regaining the attention of the meeting.

“While your research is of remarkable importance to the Organization, so is this mission and every other mission we undertake. Do you mean to suggest that the orders I give are frivolous?”

“Of course not, but Lord Xemnas-”

The Superior shot him a withering glare that silenced him once and for all. “My word is final, Number IV. You are going on this mission and I’d rather be certain that you’re prepared for it. Whatever form that preparation takes is up to Xigbar.”

As Xemnas disappeared from the room, uncomfortable glances were exchanged among the remaining members before leaving to begin their own missions. Xigbar shot Vexen a smug grin, receiving an irritated huff in return.

After the meeting, the scientist pulled him aside in the Grey Area. He was slightly subdued after Xemnas’ scolding, but Xigbar could tell if he had emotions that he’d be fuming inside.

“While I believe our Superior has far too much confidence in you, I have no other choice but to comply. So how would you like to do this?”

His lips curled into a cheshire grin. “Meet me back here later tonight and I’ll brief you on the mission. Tomorrow morning, we’ll spar so I can test your readiness.”

Vexen gave no indication that he would comply as he stomped off into a corridor, but Xigbar knew he would show. He may grump and argue until he’s blue in the face, but he followed orders. That was one thing that hadn’t changed about him. About Even.

Xigbar caught himself smirking - no, smiling - at the thought of the academic’s Somebody name. Huh. Despite it all, maybe he hadn’t changed much himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning found Xigbar waiting for Vexen in the Hall of Empty Melodies. It was his favored room for training because of all the different ways he could manipulate it with his spatial powers, but he also found himself going there to organize his thoughts when his own room became too stifling. He perched himself on the balcony, one knee drawn nearly up to his chest and the other dangling over the edge.

It wasn’t often that Xigbar found himself pondering his past life. He was essentially still Braig, after all, just without all of those messy emotions. And boy had Braig been a mess. Drifting through life and never getting too attached to any person or place for long, bonds weren’t really his thing. It was strange when he found himself becoming one of the Apprentices. 

Ansem was never much more than his employer, to be honest. The man had taken him in, sure, but the guy was the king of Radiant Garden. To consider him a colleague would have been laughable. Really, he spent the most time with Dilan and Aeleus. They were two of the only people he’d ever considered friends. He got on their nerves and he knew it, but he never pushed it too far (though they might argue with that.) But they never got seriously upset with him. Not like Even.

Even. The academic was skeptical when Braig showed up. Understandably so, but did the cold shoulder really have to be so cold? It was no surprise that the man was a master of ice magic; everything about him was frigid, from his stuffy posture to the very air around him. But it only made Braig want to get closer, to get past the ice and warm him up… 

Heh, now those were some thoughts he hadn’t had in a while. All in all, it hadn’t been too bad there at the end. He had coworkers and a routine and a life. A place to call home, despite never having asked for any of it.

And then he gave it all up.

Did he regret it? Sometimes.

There were moments, when they began falling to darkness, when he considered the consequences of his actions. He hadn’t meant for them to be caught up in everything, but then again, how could it have been avoided? He never once went back on his word to the old man, but he’d be lying if he said there were never nights where the guilt gnawed at him, moments he looked at Ienzo and saw a boy that would never truly grow up because of him.

But that was the old life. He stirred out of his thoughts and assessed the room below him. Vexen wasn’t there yet, but would be showing up soon. Xigbar dropped down onto the main platform. He wasn’t sure what to expect from this fight, but he was hoping to be surprised. 

Even had never been the physical type, relying on his magic for self defense. But there was a noticeable difference between Even and Vexen. Despite lacking emotion, there was something about him that suggested fire beneath the Nobody’s icy surface. Or so Xigbar hoped.

“Apologies for being late, I didn’t want to be here.”

Xigbar smirked at the approaching scientist. “About time. I was starting to think you got cold feet and stood me up. You ready?”

“If I have to be,” he grumbled.

With a nod, Xigbar unzipped and shrugged off his coat. The freeshooter still had the standard uniform of black shirt and pants on underneath, but made a show of dramatically rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. He snuck a look at Vexen, who was watching with no expression save for a raised eyebrow.

“You failed to mention we’d be disrobing for this,” he muttered, his eyes drifting up and down Xigbar’s form. The freeshooter wondered if he was conscious of it or not.

“C’mon, you call this disrobing?” Xigbar barked out a laugh, peeling off his gloves and throwing them down. “Don’t tell me you’re going commando under there.”

“Well of course not, but-”

“It does wonders for mobility, trust me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Vexen grumbled to himself as he shed his own jacket. Xigbar couldn’t recall ever having seen the man’s arms bared before - well, mostly bared. His broad shoulders had always been obvious, so it shouldn’t have been too surprising when the scientist wasn’t as scrawny as he’d imagined. Of course, Xigbar couldn’t really talk because apart from Zexion, he was definitely the smallest of the Apprentices in both stature and mass. He gave an appreciative nod before getting into a fighting stance.

Vexen copied the motion as best he could. His form was a little loose, suggesting the lack of experience that Xigbar had expected. But that’s why they were there, right?

He knew the answer before he even asked, but gave Vexen the benefit of the doubt anyway. “You ever done this before, Snowflake?”

“No,” he admitted, “but I don’t seem to have much of a choice in the matter, now do I?”

“Damn straight. After I’m through with you though? You’ll be more than ready for the mission.”

At Vexen’s nod, Xigbar gave a silent countdown. Three. Two. One. Without giving Vexen a moment to think, he lunged and closed the distance between them, hoping to catch him off guard with a swift uppercut. To his surprise, the blow was deflected with relative ease. He took a step back to reassess his opponent.

“Well well well,” he huffed, “I should’ve known the nerd could block a punch. I was gonna take it easy on ya, but now…”

Trailing off, he moved back in and followed up with a series of hooks and jabs, all of which Vexen managed to block. And with each passing second, each failed attempt, the scientist was looking more and more smug. He knew the freeshooter had underestimated him.

As they circled each other, the room silent save for their labored breaths and footfalls, Xigbar grew impatient. He hadn’t managed to land a single hit yet. It wasn’t as if he’d gone into the sparring match with the express purpose of beating on the academic, but he just didn’t understand how he was doing so well. Sure, Vexen wasn’t exactly firing back, instead focusing all of his efforts on defense, but Xigbar was no stranger to a fist fight. So what gives?

And it was then that he remembered Vexen’s signature wasn’t a weapon at all, but a shield. Well, he’d just have to give him something he couldn’t block that easily. He locked eyes with the academic before lunging again.

As expected, Vexen was ready for the attack, dodging the first hit and continuing to deflect the rest. After a few more unsuccessful blows, Xigbar saw his opening and took it. The freeshooter threw all of his weight into a tackle, grabbing the man’s wrists as they both went down.

He sat up, slightly dazed and his own body sore from the fall, but kept the scientist’s arms pinned to the ground. And the momentary look of shock on Vexen’s face - if he could feel shock, anyway - was well worth it. The scientist looked down to see Xigbar straddling his waist and shot him a sneer.

“I didn’t realize this was a grappling match as well,” he hissed between shallow breaths.

Xigbar gave a toothy grin. “Can’t have you being the only one full of surprises, now can I?”

He kept Vexen pinned a few seconds longer, looking down at him. The academic was a mess of blonde hair and faux anger, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm as he caught his breath. He glared at Xigbar, waiting for him to say or do something. Daring him to make a move. And so without a second thought, Xigbar dipped his head and pressed his lips to Vexen’s in a fleeting kiss.

Or, what was meant to be fleeting. The kiss was unexpectedly returned, Vexen’s mouth parting with a quiet ‘mmph’ before falling into sync with Xigbar’s. Something sparked in the sharpshooter’s chest - a long forgotten ache, right where his non existent heart should be. He pulled back, unable to keep his jaw from going slack as he stared down at Vexen. The man’s face was a mirror of his own, almost as if he was equally surprised at the reciprocation. Unless… he felt it too? Xigbar almost thought he saw color beginning to tinge the man’s cheeks when-

CRACK.

In his moment of distraction, Vexen had freed his right hand and swung with all of his remaining strength, landing a solid blow against the freeshooter’s face and effectively knocking him off.

Xigbar clutched at his bleeding and likely broken nose, eye wide with shock. His breath came in gasps as he stared at Vexen. “… the fuck?”

Vexen stood up and grabbed his jacket, furiously brushing his hair back into place. His face was definitely turning red and for a moment Xigbar could swear he was looking at a flustered Even, not the heartless Nobody that had just decked him.

“I’ll see you on the day of the mission, and not a moment before.” He gave the sharpshooter one last glare before disappearing into a dark corridor.

Xigbar couldn’t even think straight as he tried to process everything that just happened. The fight was over quicker than expected. Shit, had he technically lost? Did he just get his ass handed to him by Vexen? All because of some… stupid tingling in his chest that shouldn’t have even been there in the first place. Or at least, it hadn’t been in a long time. Why had he done that?

He laid down, head thunking against the floor as he clutched at his still bleeding nose. Well, maybe it wasn’t all bad. Vexen wouldn’t be telling anyone about their little match after that stunt, so at least his dignity was spared. But that was the least of his concerns at the moment.

In private, Xermnas had confided in him that regrowth of one’s heart was theoretically possible. It was gone now, but he still felt the ghost sensations of a pulse, the flickering of a flame that had long gone out. Maybe there was something to that theory after all. Not that he’d be reporting this back to their Superior any time soon. Or ever.

Instead, it might be worth it to look into the phenomenon on his own. And if he played his cards right, Vexen might willingly help him. He allowed himself a chuckle before closing his eye. After all, research was easier with a partner.

[aprindea]

The Gift

(summary) For his one year anniversary of his first date with Garak, Bashir gives Garak a gift.

(established couple: Garak/Bashir, M/M )

(PG13/no sex/kissing/fluff)

******

Dr. Bashir looked more disheveled than usual after working a double shift; his hair stood at awkward angles. His facial expression signalled concern, even as he stepped from the Infirmary into the hallway that led into the Promenade to the Replimat. Thirty-six more hours. Jadzia caught up with him.

“Julian, are you taking a break?”

He turned to her, unsurprised. “Hello Jadzia, yes I very much am! I’m going to have a meal, then go to my quarters, change, and go back to the Infirmary.”

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, fine.” He attempted to handwave her concerns.

The two officers sat down, him with an anxious smile, her with a disbelieving look in her aquamarine-blue eyes. He ate quickly, inhaling his food as if he was in a big rush; she ate at her normal rate, politely and discreetly.

“And you?” he’d asked, in between quick bites.

“I … had a date with Worf last night. It didn’t go as well as I expected,” she confessed, still smiling.

He frowned in response. “What did he do?”

She replied, conspiratorially. “It’s more about what he didn’t do. Well! I’m not worried about it. We’ll stay friends,” she said with a wink. He nodded and continued eating, though his anxious body language gave him away. “Any plans these next few days for you?”

His shoulders tensed. “Actually, in thirty-six more hours is my and Garak’s… one year anniversary,” he said, and though he sounded pleased and hopeful, his foot still tapped underneath the table.

“That’s cause for celebration”.

“It will be a relief. I will finally be able to give Garak his gift.”

“You’re worried he won’t like it?” she questioned.

“I’m worried it won’t make it until then,” the doctor explained.

The Trill’s eyes widened. “You’re giving Garak a pet?”

“No, but something even more delicate, if that’s possible,” he said, leaning closer, and then, “I’ll show you, if you’d like... Keiko was supposed to be in charge of the “taking care of it” part but she got called to Bajor last minute on a dream project regarding formerly extinct Bajoran flora, and I could never ask her to turn down such a fascinating research opportunity.”

They went to his quarters; Bashir stepped under the sonic, was out and changed into a new uniform in record time. Jadzia had waited calmly, but her expression was curious the moment he stepped out, especially as his face betrayed worry. The station’s CMO tapped the side of his table, and a large secret drawer popped out, which had been outfitted with artificial light. Inside, under that artificial light, was a beautiful, violet-and-green coloured orchid, with four large flowers and emerald green stems.

“Julian, that’s so beautiful!”

“And difficult, beautiful and difficult. Requires quite a specific regimen, a meticulous sort of care… this is a type of edosian orchid of a rare coloration, normally grown on Cardassia Prime, on the most Western point of the coastline.” He checked the flowers and leaves of the plant with a small magnifier, seemingly looking for the tiniest details, and watered it with pre-measured container of room temperature water, which was absorbed into the dark soil, and took some small, sesame-sized plant food from another pre-measured container and distributed it carefully.

“You aren’t doing too badly! The orchid looks like it’s thriving.”

“I have to keep it alive for thirty-five and a half more hours,” he replied, matter-of-factly, trying to prevent himself from sounding desperate.

“Wait, you’ve never had a plant before?”

“I have,” he explained mournfully, “but they tend to… they tend to die under my care.”

“This one isn’t dying,” she pointed out, rightfully, as she smiled at him with her glittering eyes from the reflection of the artificial light.

Julian Bashir, enhanced human, chief medical officer above Deep Space Nine, regular performer of difficult surgeries gulped. His mouth was dry. He took a few breaths.

Jadzia, for her part, clapped him on the shoulder, and stood. “You’ll be fine. It’s gorgeous. He’ll love it.”

Julian smoothed his hair and uniform. Together, they stepped out of his quarters. The CMO went back to work, and the Trill lieutenant went back to her work station on the Bridge.

While in the infirmary, Dr. Bashir contacted Garak to make some excuse, but it turned out not to be necessary.

“Hello, my dear”, the Cardassian responded, a preoccupied expression on his ridged features. “I am afraid that I will not be available for a time; I am putting the finishing touches on a wedding dress, and the final fitting is tomorrow.”

“Ahh, right, of course. I’m sure it looks beautiful.”

“If I never see white Andorian lace again, it will be too soon,” he replied, frustration permeating his normally calm and smooth tone of voice. “Forgive me, it’s this veil; seems my customer’s Andorian’s family uses a lot of pure white as a tradition, and even in lower light it is uncomfortably bright. The material manages to be both thick and somehow too stiff, besides; fortunately, I’ve been able to tame it into what I trust is an acceptable shape.”

“I am sure she will love your design and the result,” tried Bashir for encouraging.

“I should hope so. We’ve worked closely for approximately eight weeks,” the Cardassian explained.

Dr. Bashir raised his eyebrows. “Difficult customer?”

Garak replied smoothly this time. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, my dear.”

“All right, before I go, I’ll remind you that you still have to drink and eat. Please, Garak.”

“I have eaten and I am drinking tea; I will be re-filling my cup soon.”

The two said their goodbyes and that evening, Dr. Bashir checked on the plant again, this time talking to it, since they were alone in his quarters.

“I hope Elim likes you. He works long hours, so there is an eighty-seven percent likelihood he will keep you on his desk, close by. It’s true he hasn’t mentioned anniversaries yet, but I have to assume Cardassians celebrate them, even if they are not married. Yes, your flowers look beautiful, look at you, great job.”

Not that Odo didn’t already believe that I am a very strange sort of alien… he thought to himself, sighed and went to his quarters and changed into his night clothes. Twenty eight and a half more hours.

He slept fitfully, dreaming the plant had grown to human sized. In the dream, Jadzia had nonchalantly helped him hide it from Sisko. His first thought upon awakening: Twenty one and a half more hours. Once more, he tapped the side of the table, and noted the plant was its regular expected size, the flowers looked happy, turning up towards the light, brightly coloured in appearance; the soil remained dark, which the doctor recalled it meant the plant was getting enough water. He once again deposited the water and plant food portion for the day, and checked the flowers and stems carefully. All appeared well, and so the doctor gently pushed the drawer shut and let out a breath he was unaware he was holding.

Upon stepping into the hallway, he rushed to the replimat, chose a sandwich, and ate it while walking to the Infirmary. Once in his office, he debriefed with Dr. Gilani, briefly recalled that he had twenty more hours and worked a while longer than strictly required.

Ten more hours. Dr. Bashir checked on the plant once again, including the soil moisture levels; he fed and watered the plant, and re-closed the drawer with the artificial light, which contained, for the last time, the fussy orchid.

The tired doctor headed to bed, sleeping for a few short hours before the computer awakened him for the day of the anniversary. He did his regular morning routine, checked on the plant again, with an elevated heart rate on his end (completely psychosomatic, stop that, heart) and sent a written message to Garak for a dinner invitation.

During his lunch hour, he received a response on his mini personal padd: “I am available, however, it will be a late, brief dinner;  there is a slight alteration the customer asked me to make on the veil, and I must ensure its completion.” Bashir grabbed his padd as soon as he’d spotted the small green light alert and immediately replied with “Thank you”, pressing harder than was necessary, sending the message.

In his quarters, after his shift, Dr. Bashir checked on the plant twice; there was no change.  He turned on his replicator, paced while trying to decide meals, and contacted Jadzia: “I’m doomed. There is a twelve percent chance he doesn’t want to even mention our anniversary.”

Jadzia replied shortly: “Not a chance, your math is off. Drink something for liquid courage. Plant picture?”

He sent her a picture of the orchid to which there was a speedy reply: “As beautiful as ever. He will 99% love it and he has likely handmade something for you.”

The genetically modified doctor’s heartbeat did not slow down by much.

Garak, for his part, had finished the veil; now, he was putting the finishing touches on what looked like a human suit from the 1950s, complete with silk tie. There was a subtle pattern on the green shirt, and the tie had a green and golden colour combination, and the same subtle texture pattern as the shirt. Carefully, he checked once more for stray string, found none, and so the suit was placed in a thin garment bag. The Cardassian tailor and designer picked up the gift, drank the last of the cold tea on his desk and headed to Bashir’s quarters.

The door to his doctor’s quarters opened without delay; the Cardassian quickly took in his surroundings, only to account for changes from last time. The lights were lower, the temperature was turned up, and his doctor was dressed in a delightful grey shirt with black slacks. There was that smile directed at him! Garak smiled back, having placed the gift on a chair away from him.

“Hello, Garak. I’ve set up for dinner, and your tea.”

“Thank you, hello, my dear.” He was tired, and his voice sounded like it.

They sat down and helped themselves to the dishes, while Bashir explained:

“I have something for you; it is small, but I hope you like it.”

“I also have something for you; something I made as an experiment.”

The Cardassian turned, and saw his doctor’s hazel eyes lit up, his pupils slightly dilated. Dr. Bashir stood to open the drawer to the short table; when he turned, Garak was holding the garment bag, and Bashir said: "You didn’t!”

“I had to, you see; I asked the database what I should do because it seems that this is a significant date. But doctor, tell me that isn’t a real edosian orchid. It is nearly impossible to grow them on this miserable station!”

“Nearly, yes… but it is indeed an edosian orchid, real and non replicated, it is your gift.”

They exchanged the gifts, Bashir excitedly opening the garment bag and admiring the suit, Garak gingerly taking the pot with the plant and carefully studying the flowers and leaves of the live orchid.

“My dear, this is… this is beautiful. I certainly did not expect- well. This gift is so thoughtful!”

“And this suit! The colours! I will have to try it on.”

“Please,” spoke the Cardassian, yet he was still looking at the flower, as if it was part of a dream and it would vanish if he stopped staring.

Even in the artificial overly harsh light of Bashir’s quarters, the flower petals shone with a wonderful depth; the shades of purple with a small section of orange complimented everything, even these dark grey quarters, which had been built for Cardassian military.

Bashir came out while he was doing his bowtie. Garak was instantly at his side, having gingerly placed the plant on top of the table and now finding himself standing too close to the doctor, yet Bashir didn’t mind. Instead, the human smiled at him. Imagine that, the Cardassian thought to himself, and looked at his partner, who had managed to tie his bowtie. Garak reached for it instinctively and straightened it slightly, touched his shoulders, and gently moved a stray strand of hair away from Bashir’s face.

“Happy anniversary, Garak.” the doctor began to lean forward, but stopped himself.

Instead, Garak closed the small gap between them. “Happy Anniversary, and please go ahead.”

It was at this moment that Bashir kissed him. Time stopped; the Cardassian responded with enthusiasm, reaching for Bashir’s head and applying varying degrees of pressure. The two were in almost perfect sync, until Garak pulled away, somewhat reluctantly, to breathe.

Then, breathless, Bashir blinked, and Garak did too, almost as if it were a reply: I feel safe.

THE END

[andrewmoocow]

Steven Universe: The Fantastic Mutants Chapter 1: Fantastically Uncanny (originally posted on January 1, 2020)

AN: After going back to the past to explore the history of Thanos, we finally jump back to the future with this latest and long-awaited installment of the Marvel Gems Universe in the all-new Heavy Metal Trilogy! I'm your darling author Lightyearpig, and we're finally back in business baby! Just as a disclaimer, this takes place a few weeks after Change your Mind which unfortunately means no references to the movie or Spinel. Tragic, I know. But without further ado, let the return of the Crystal Gems commence!

--

"So nice of you to take us in professor." Rose Quartz thanked a young Charles Xavier as they, along with Garnet, Amethyst & Pearl strolled through his mansion home in Westchester County, New York during the year 1963. "I empathize so deeply with your desires for harmony between humans and mutants. Both your kinds are just so intriguing to me." "And I find Gems a peculiar topic as well." Xavier remarked with a smile. "I have to admit, I find myself endearing to your plights against those Diamonds thousands of years ago. Do you believe they could strike again?" he asked. "I don't think so. Ever since the end of the rebellion, Earth has been in relative peace for millenniums." Garnet responded adjusting her shades. "However, they could strike again if any deeper knowledge of the Crystal Gems reach them." "So Xy, got any cool stuff to show us? Or are we just gonna keep walking around and talking about junk?" Amethyst asked casually. "Amethyst, be polite!" Pearl gently scolded the smaller Gem, but Charles laughed warmly. "No need to be so concerned Pearl." the professor stated. "But there is one thing I've been working on for the past few years. Please, follow me." Xavier lead the Gems to his office, where he pressed a button hidden inside a bust of Martin Luther King Jr. and opened a secret elevator hidden behind a bookshelf. "Right this way now girls." he commanded stepping into the elevator and the Gems followed. The lift slowly creeped down the passageway and then finally stopped at a sub-basement inhabited solely by a helmet and computer-like device, both connected to a large electronic brain hovering above them. "This is what I call Cerebro." Xavier explained. "It's still a work in progress, but one day I can use this to search for mutants around the world and take them in as both my students & future heroes." "Mind if you give us a demonstration?" Rose asked. "I never thought you'd ask." Charles proclaimed sitting down at the computer and putting on the helmet. -- Years later, a far older, wheelchair-bound Xavier took off the helmet in a more modern looking Cerebro room while Wolverine and Mister Fantastic stood by him. "You sure this is still the one Logan?" Professor X asked the Canadian mutant. "I'm sure of it Chuck." Logan replied. "Just say the word and we'll all be there in a jiff." "I would like to research this boy sometime." Reed Richards commented gazing at a video image of Steven Universe conjured up by Xavier's machine. With a press of his temple, the professor telepathically gave out his orders. "To me, my X-Men!"

-- "So what was that Universe child like Logan?" the field leader of the X-Men Scott Summers, aka Cyclops asked Wolverine while the mutant team flew out to Beach City on the Blackbird. "Real energetic little squirt who sees the good in a ton of people, even Thanos." Wolverine answered. "Got a bunch of crazy friends too, like this big square lady who's literally just a pair of tiny girlfriends in a trenchcoat, a purple midget with a whip, some bird woman who had the hots for his dead mom when she was alive, etc." "My stars and garters, what an interesting bunch." the beastly researcher Hank McCoy commented. "Heads up gang, we should be landing in Beach City any moment now." their current pilot Angel, aka Warren Worthington III, announced as the jet got closer. "Please keep arms and legs within your seats as we begin touchdown. Okay Wolvie, where to?" "Just be on the lookout for a beach house jammed into the big statue of a giant woman near the beach, that's all." Logan ordered sitting down in his seat and looking out the window. "See, there it is!" he exclaimed pointing at that very beach house in the distance, only it was very different from when he last saw it. Since he last departed Beach City after the battle with Thanos, the house now had a second floor in construction process connecting to a barely-finished crystal dome, larger windows at the front and two flags outside of it. When the X-Men touched down on the beach close to the beach house, he got a better look at the flags to discover that one of them symbolized Earth while the other was colored yellow, blue, white and pink. "Whew, talk about a chic place!" the cryokinetic Bobby Drake, better known as Iceman, whistled while gazing at the house. "You told us he was just some kid with crazy alien powers!" "Bob, there's so much you don't know about these Gems yet." Logan declared placing a hand on his comrade's cold shoulder when the door opened and out of it came Steven himself. "Hi Wolverine! We weren't expecting you to come back after helping us stop Thanos!" the half-Gem boy greeted the savage mutant. "And are those the X-Men?! Awesome!" "We just need to talk squirt!" Logan hollered back from below the front porch. "And also, WHAT THE F-" -- "You're just worried that I can survive that." Wolverine snarled while hand soap slowly dripped out his mouth. "So you were saying that your dead mom was secretly a space warlord who ditched her home planet for Earth because she was sick of the other Diamonds treating her like shit?" "That's basically it, yeah." Amethyst commented. Also since Wolverine first left Beach City, the Crystal Gems had changed in appearance as well. Garnet's visor had turned orange while the top part resembled a star, the bottom part of her torso was split between red & blue and had copper & tin wedding rings on her fingers. Amethyst now had a black top exposing her gemstone, jean shorts with black stars on them and her boots were white. And Pearl had gained a cyan blazer with shoulder-pads over a teal blue top, indigo leggings and pink flats. But it was the newer members of Crystal Gems that changed the most. Peridot's visor was now a larger butterfly shape, she proudly wore her stars on her chest & knees and her socks were now chartreuse yellow boots. Lapis had doffed a skirt entirely in favor of dark-blue sweatpants held up by a gold ribbon, her top had the upper portion of a star on it and she now had golden sandals on. And Bismuth was now clad in a black vest-like garment over a strapless red apron while her boots & pants remained unchanged. "Well, good to know." Cyclops stated standing at attention before Steven. "Greetings young Mr. Universe. I am Scott Summers, also known as X-Men leader Cyclops." Scott introduced himself. "My team and I have arrived at your homestead with an offer to better your skills under the tutelage of our superior Professor Charles Xavier." "Wait, you mean Chuck?!" Amethyst exclaimed. "Aw, it's been ages since we last saw him! How's he been?" she asked. "Since he last met you Crystal Gems, he took us in as his students before becoming paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair." Cyclops's lover & second in command Jean Grey responded. "I'm Jean Grey." she introduced herself as well. "These are the rest of our graduating class; Iceman, Angel and Beast. And I'm sure you're already familiar with Wolverine." "Anyone wanna tell me who this newbie is?" Logan asked standing next to a green one-eyed Gem with white hair and a pink diamond on her chest dressed in light green coattails. "Forgive me sir, my name is Nephrite." the new Gem introduced herself. "Honorary member of the Crystal Gems at your service!" "She was the first corrupted Gem we fought and as such, one of the first we fully healed." Garnet briefed Howlett. "She's here today because we're in the process of building a place for all former Gem monsters to call home, just like her." "So kind of like our headquarters, where we train mutants from across the globe to become the next generation of heroes." Jean stated. "Wait, there's more of you?" Bismuth asked the telepath quizzically. "I suppose you must've been unaware for some reason." the scarlet-locked mutant guessed correctly while using her mutant powers to read the blacksmith's mind. "Oh you bet I was!" Bismuth replied. "Just a simple case of being bubbled and stuck in a lion's mane due to...disagreements, shall we say." "You mean this creature?" Beast asked observing Lion as he sniffed his blue fur. "How can it be possible? Surely the mane of a normal lion cannot contain anything at maximum length!" Steven however answered Dr. McCoy's questions by sticking his hand inside the mane. "My word, I must learn more!" "Hey Steven, just came by today to help with construct-" Connie announced stepping into the beach house expecting the Gems to accept her help. They were present, but were too preoccupied by a group of mutants investigating them including a blue-furred man holding Lion by the sides. "Not even going to ask." "Am I the only one getting some weird deja vu?" Lapis pondered. "Oh you bet! All we need now is a black hole bomb made out of kitchen things!" Peridot replied with a snicker. "Oh hey Connie, I'd like you to meet the X-Men." Steven introduced his swordfighting friend to the merry mutants. "You must be the friend of Steven I've heard Logan talk about." Cyclops commented shaking the girl's hand. "I am Cyclops. Me and my teammates are here today to test Steven and see if he's got what it takes to be a student of Xavier." "Oh cool! Let me guess, you have a flying machine outside on the beach to take us to your HQ?" Connie asked. "That's how the last few superheroes came to see us." "You are very spot-on young lady." Beast declared opening the door for everyone to leave. "Come now, we have much to discuss in Westchester!" The Crystal Gems exited the beach house where the Blackbird awaited them on the sand outside. "Oh my gosh, your ship looks so cool!" Steven cried out in excitement. "Can I sit in the front?" "Surely. Anything Steven." Scott kindly accepted when they boarded the X-Men's jet and allowed the boy to take one of the front seats closest to the pilot's section while the other Crystal Gems, plus Lion, simply stood around. "Well aren't you just a lucky boy?" Amethyst quipped while leaning against Iceman's seat. "Getting to ride shotgun with the big cheese of the X-Men." "Though I'm not sure if we're ready to let Steven leave Beach City to better his powers." Pearl stated with concern when Beast put a hand on her shoulder. "Do not worry my dear, he's in good hands." Hank declared. "Or maybe not." Garnet announced adjusting her shades. "I fear something bad could happen to him while at your mansion." "Yeesh, Captain Ominous here. Am I right?" Angel snarked as the Blackbird finally took off, heading towards Westchester and zooming away from Beach City. Down below, Greg was ready to drive up to the Temple in his van when he saw the Blackbird flying overhead. "I wonder what bizarre adventures Steven is getting into this time?" he muttered as the jet vanished from sight. -- "And that, children, is how you land a fastball special." the metal-skinned Russian mutant Piotr Rasputin, aka Colossus, declared to a classroom full of young mutants in the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning for Gifted Youngsters. The school was established by the genius to better the skills of the young mutants, build them to be the next generation of heroes and inspire his motto of peace between humans & mutants within them. When the X-Men were not fighting the forces of evil, many of them spent time teaching classes, and Colossus, the leader of the Gold team of X-Men, was no different. "Now then, any questions?" Piotr asked his pupils when one of them raised his hand. "Yes, Mr. Collins?" he stated. "Have you noticed that Kitty's head is poking out of the board?" Russell Collins asked, bringing attention to Rasputin's fellow X-Man Kitty Pryde popping her head out with her phasing abilities, inciting giggles from the class. "Bozhe moy!" Colossus exclaimed in surprise. "I didn't see you there Kitty! What brings you here?" "I came because Emma told me to tell you that Cyclops and the others are coming back." Kitty announced. "Uzhe?!" Piotr muttered before turning to his class. "My apologies students, I have other matters to attend to." he apologized to his pupils as he walked out the door. "Be sure to keep studying everyone!" -- In the foyer of the mansion, the X-Men assembled to welcome back their six famous teammates and gemlike guests. On one side were the Blue Team of mutants. Aside from Cyclops, Jean, Hank, Angel, Iceman & Wolverine, they included the weather-wielding Storm, power-stealing Southern belle Rogue, charming card-tosser Gambit, implike teleporting Nightcrawler, fireworks-tossing Jubilee, the disappearing Shadowcat & her pet dragon Lockheed and the tracker Warpath. On the other side was the Gold Team led by Colossus. By his side were the beautiful telepath Emma Frost, Wolverine's clone daughter X-23, Colossus's younger sister Magik, the fire-wielder Firestar, solar-powered Sunspot, pop singer Dazzler, wisecracking shapeshifter Morph, living rocket Cannonball, lava-generating Magma and the other teleporter Blink. Professor Xavier psychically lifted his wheelchair down the stairs and planted himself on the floor to look at the Crystal Gems. "Today my fellow mutants, we welcome some old friends of mine into our school." he announced. "I'd like to thank Logan here for pointing us in their direction." Wolverine simply rolled his eyes before lighting up a cigarette to smoke. "Without Wolverine, our eyes wouldn't have been opened to the potential of young Steven Universe here as both a student of my school and a potential X-Man as well." Xavier finished his speech with a grin. "Now then everyone, introduce yourselves." "Yo Chuck, it's been ages! How ya been?!" Amethyst excitedly greeted the professor. "Why Amethyst, so good to see you again too." Xavier replied tousling the smaller Gem's hair. "It seems that all three of you have changed quite a bit since we last met." he added looking at Garnet and Pearl. "Along with new additions to your ranks as well." "Astounding! Some humans can choose not to use their gravity connectors!" Peridot exclaimed gazing at the mutant's wheelchair. "And they can also choose to not have hair as well!" Xavier gave a warm chuckle and patted Peridot on her three-sided head. "Quite an observant one, isn't she?" "So what's up with the whole no-hair business?" Lapis asked Charles. "It's just old age my dear." the professor stated while gazing at Steven and Connie meeting the rest of the X-Men. "So you're basically Wolverine's clone?" Connie asked X-23. "Yeah, pretty much." Laura replied deadpan. "And I'm also sort of his daughter as well." "Whoa, you have a pet dragon?!" Steven gasped in amazement while Lockheed perched himself on his shoulder. "Well, Lockheed is more of a weird alien dragon, but you get the point." Kitty replied earnestly. "Which reminds me, can I get a look at your lion?" Without Steven even asking him to, Lion walked towards Kitty Pryde and stared at her for a few moments before bowing his head, allowing her to pet him. "Aw, he's a real cutie." she cooed at Lion. "When and where did you get him?" "It was when I was starting to go on missions with the Gems, I found him in a desert one time." Steven explained. "Ah, sometimes I miss the simpler days when I was just an excitable tagalong to them. Just a new monster with no drama related to my dead mom or other Gems in sight." "Kinda reminds me of when I started out as an X-Man." Kitty regaled. "I was just another student of theirs until I happened to save their lives from the Hellfire Club and that's how I became a full member with both Storm & Wolverine having my back." "Wow, you two are surprisingly pretty similar." Connie observed. "You mean like how we were once eager young sidekicks to more experienced heroes who soon grew into our own?" Kitty responded. "Yeah, that's basically it." Connie replied. "So what can all of you do?" "That's just what I needed to hear young lady." Professor X stated. "I want to see how skilled you and Steven are on the battlefield. Come now, to the Danger Room everyone! Reed and company should be down there waiting for us." "What's that?" Steven asked Wolverine. "It's what we call our training room. Able to simulate any situation that requires any of our abilities." Logan explained. "It's been rebuilt God knows how many times, but it's still the same old room through and through." As the Crystal Gems were led by the X-Men, a female student of the Academy watched them depart and her eyes turned yellow as she eyed Lapis in particular. "Ah, she seems easy to replace." she muttered to herself while her skin slowly turned blue. "Let the mission proceed." -- Happy New Year everyone! I sincerely hope 2020 and beyond brings us more fond memories together, and I also hope I don't procrastinate on every chapter like what happened towards the end of both Secret Wars & Gravity Soul. With that said, just who is that mysterious student and what does she want with Lapis Lazuli?! Well if you know your Marvel, then I suppose the yellow eyes and blue skin should give it away. Anyways, be sure to leave a review and I'll see you next time!

[teaandcrowns]

chapter one | chapter two

chapter three

Setting up a camp in the middle of nowhere was almost like it used to be, Katara, Aang, Sokka, and Toph all fell into old rhythms, practiced as ever.

For a few stretches of time Katara could forget that they’d had to leave without her father again, that they’d had to run from attacks from Fire Nation airships—from Azula—again. She could forget, briefly, that now Zuko was part of their group, who was once in the place his sister now occupied: hunting them down across the entire world.

Except once she had that thought, she couldn’t ignore it. He was just so undeniably Fire Nation it got her angry just to think of him. The bright of his golden eyes, the deeper, true black of his hair compared to that of other nations—even the cool, tawny paleness of his skin reminded her of new morning sunlight. Frustrated at her own distraction and a minor distaste still lingering from the dream, she took out her irritation on the blanket in her hands, snapping it in the air with a sharp flick of her wrists and gaining a small sense of satisfaction from the audible noise it made.

“You okay?”

Suki’s voice came from over her shoulder and startled her, and Katara gathered the blanket against her chest, feeling a faint heat in her cheeks.

She’d forgotten, too, that Suki was now with them—something that was a little embarrassing, considering that she genuinely really liked the Kyoshi warrior.

The smile that Katara gave her wasn’t entirely put on. “I’m fine, thanks. Just… getting all the dust out of our blankets.”

The look Suki gave her had her wondering if all denizens of the Earth Kingdom could sense lies regardless of bending abilities, but to her relief the other girl smiled back. “Can I help with anything? You guys are all in sync with one another and I feel a bit useless.”

Katara’s mouth curved into a sincere smile. Exasperation at feeling useless was something she could certainly relate to. “Sure. Why don’t you unpack some bowls for dinner while I finish up with the blankets? And after that we can make a fire.”

It felt good to share some of her old chores with another girl, and soon Katara was joking and laughing more easily than she felt she had in a while. They didn’t take long with either of their tasks, but when Katara turned to start a fire pit, she saw Zuko crouched near it, setting up an armful of sticks into a teepee formation. He was engrossed with the simple task, it seemed, and didn’t notice her staring down at him, at the way his hands moved while he worked.

A desperate, shouted warning echoes from somewhere to her left as she stares up at the crumbling ceiling—but then an arm wraps tightly around her waist and drags her along with its owner. A second arm is also suddenly around her, grasping onto the first and holding her firmly against a solid, impossibly warm torso. She doesn’t have time enough to think as she is snatched, tumbling, out of the way, cushioned by this mass from hitting the floor. It is only when they roll to a stop several feet away that her mind registers that it is Zuko who saved her, that his chest is still pressed against her back, his arms still framing her against the stone floor. Her heart pounds in her chest and the proximity of his heat and the rush of his heartbeat in her ears nearly drowns out her own.

“What are you doing?”

The quiet snap in her voice made him look up, startled. “Uh—” he began, then tried again. “I’m a firebender?”

When he stopped there, Katara tilted her head at him. “Yes,” she said, as if to a child, “you are a firebender. I’m glad you finally figured that out for sure.”

His mouth turned down beneath the red rising against his cheekbones. Suki covered a laugh beside her. “I mean it makes sense that I’d set up the fire, is all. Since I can make it whenever.”

Katara’s smile turned sharper and she folded her arms across her front. “So if we run out of firewood does that mean I can just make you hold the cooking pot for meals?”

The flush of heat faded from his face. “If you want help, you could also just ask me—”

Her sharpness diminished into something sour. “Don’t worry,” she interrupted. “I won’t.”

Turning back to Suki, she continued. “Looks like Zuko has this managed,” she said not bothering to keep the venom from her tone, though it lessened as she went on. “I’ll go wash up. Thanks for your help earlier.”

Not waiting for any kind of reply or reaction from either of them, Katara left them behind to seek out the quiet rush of a creek not too far away. Being around Zuko made her blood boil, made her lungs feel tight, and she wanted to be by water to ease calm back into herself.

The creek ran cool around her calves as she stood in it. She hadn’t intended to get into the water before she arrived, but upon seeing the steady flow, she knew that she needed to be in her element. Perhaps if she were a different person, she could sit and meditate by it, but that wasn’t her—she needed to do something.

She opened her senses up to feel the course of the water flow through her and began to move through katas, without bending. Katara let out a breath and tried to push all thought from her mind. She just needed to focus on the current, on the push and pull. Katara closed her eyes and breathed with intention along with each one of her movements.

She’d come so far since the beginning of the year, barely knowing how to bend. All Katara had known then was the feel of the tides beneath her skin, and the notion that she needed to know how to do—be—more one day. That had been with her for years, since she was very small. Her mother had always tried to help her in whatever way she could, but without a proper waterbender left to teach her, there wasn’t much she could do.

Katara’s hands fell for a moment as she sifted through memories of her mother, stirred and agitated from the morning’s dream she’d had, of the events she never got to have with her mother as she passed from child to woman. Her mother had been the leader of what was left of their village, and while she couldn’t teach Katara waterbending, Kya had taught her so much.

Here, in the middle of the war, just come from an almost extinct culture’s temple, in the heat of the nation that was doing their damnedest to bring the entire world to heel, that had nearly eradicated and subjugated her entire people, Katara was suddenly drowning in the rush of her mother’s teachings. The ritual to wrap knives in sealskin after one of the elusive and massive arvik was killed by a group of hunters and towed back to the village, how to play the morin khuur, and the first techniques for proper khoomei singing, which mimics the way water swirls around the ice flow. How to gut and skin and carve; how to sew and mend and weave.

Still as stone in the middle of the creek, Katara’s throat tightened. Waterbending was an integral part of who she was, but so unending was her quest to learn that part of her heritage that she’d diminished the rest somewhere along the way. So much had been lost, beyond just waterbending, and Kya had passed on everything she could to her young, eager daughter. After her mother died, her grandmother could only add onto her Southern heritage so much, having been born and raised in the North—though Katara had never known that until recently. And the other women in the village always seemed to be in a strange sort of state of both sympathy and deference; she was the daughter of the village’s chief, after all, and so most felt uncomfortable placing themselves as her teacher.

But Katara had watched and listened and learned. Her fingers lifted to touch the necklace around her throat. She’d felt so naked all those months ago, so incomplete, when it’d been missing.

When Zuko had it.

Heat prickled at the corners of her eyes and she swallowed the sadness down into her chest again where it settled, familiar and cold. It brought her back to the present and she scowled in the direction of the group camp. The Fire Nation had taken everything from her, from her people—carving away at them as if they were broken shards of polar bear bone—and their crown prince was no different, whether exiled or defected or not.

No matter how warm the cadence of his pulse in her thumb.

Katara did not return to the camp until the sun drew the evening’s shadows out long and dark. It was much later than she thought it had been, and even while part of her was glad the others had let her have her time alone without searching for her—Like Aang, her mind immediately supplied before she could push the thought away—Katara could not stop the pang of guilt she felt, even so.

Zuko’s fire was bright against the growing darkness of the evening, standing out like a small beacon to guide her back to the rest of the group. As she neared, she heard the chatter of conversation and smelled food cooking. Guilt bubbled within her again—she hadn’t been there to start dinner, even though now the sun was below the horizon and she normally would be serving it out by this time.

The sight that greeted her was surprising. She’d expected Suki or even Sokka to be keeping watch over the little clay cooking pot and serving out food, but it was Zuko who was portioning out bowls when she stepped into the camp proper.

He looked up at her and his mouth opened as if to speak, but Aang beat him to any words he might have said.

“You’re back!” the airbender exclaimed. “I was starting to get worried; you were gone for so long, and especially with Azula chasing after us again.” The grey of his eyes dimmed as he glanced away from her. “I wanted to go looking for you, but Suki said you were fine.”

Katara looked over at the older girl, and felt her face soften. A brief exchange passed between them: silent understanding from Suki and wordless thanks from Katara. She joined the circle around the fire, across from Suki and between her brother and Toph.

“I was fine,” she confirmed, and Aang let out an audible breath. A twinge of anger tugged at her mouth, at the space between her eyebrows. Sokka nudged her with his elbow, gaining her attention and she accepted a bowl of rice and vegetables from him, as well as a cup of tea. Part of her wanted to explain herself, but she bit down on the words. Katara knew she should be glad that Aang was so concerned for her, but all she felt was irritated. She was a master waterbender—the one who taught him, taught the Avatar! Surely he didn’t think she’d be in any danger by herself for a single afternoon.

But she also knew that she couldn’t say any of that to him, and so swallowed the forming words down with a mouthful of food. Her eyebrows went up for a moment, startled to discover it was rather good, despite the plainness of the fare itself.

Raising her gaze to Zuko, who’d settled between Toph and Aang, she said, with no little amount of disbelief, “You cooked this?”

For an instant, his reaction mirrored hers, his remaining dark eyebrow lifting, then furrowing back down again as he watched her. “I did,” he replied, guarded and unsure how to take what she said. “I know it’s not fancy, but the supplies are limited.”

“I think it’s actually pretty tasty,” Sokka interjected, gesticulating with his chopsticks before taking another bite to emphasize his point.

“I guess that means you don’t have to do all the cooking anymore, Katara,” Aang supplied, brightly. Zuko’s face softened.

She knew he was being helpful, being a peacemaker, being a mediator, but it just stoked the anger in her brighter, and her hands tightened around the bowl she was holding. She wasn’t a child any longer that needed protection or coddling—hadn’t been one for years, before she even met the Avatar—but all at once his concern pressed down on her like exactly those things. “I guess I’m just glad to see that Zuko is finally contributing something to the group.” Her words tasted acerbic on her tongue, felt like they should have cut parchment-thin lesions at the corners of her mouth; they sounded nothing at all like a compliment.

In an instant, any softening in his face hardened, and Zuko leveled his gaze at hers, the firelight between them reflecting like a living thing in the gold of his eyes. She felt his heart rate quicken, felt the rest of the small group’s echoing responses in their chests. She knew she should stop, that there was no real reason for her to keep needling, but there was hurt and anger boiling over in her between the dream and reminiscing and missing her mother and the sting that Aang felt like he couldn’t trust her, that she had to be protected.

And so she continued, against her better judgement. “I’m honestly surprised it’s edible at all. Who would have thought that a pampered prince could cook.”

The scowl that she had always seen on his face half a year ago returned in full force against the caltrops she intentionally threw his way. “Tea shop assistants can cook,” he said, firm and scraping and irritated as sand against her skin. “And if refugees don’t learn to cook, they die from hunger.” The hurt in his voice did not go beyond her notice, either, though he tried to cover it up all the same.

He’d been all those things after being a prince, this she knew empirically. Personally. She’d seen the way his long green changshan had hung off shoulders not quite as full as they’d once been when he’d been in armor; she’d noticed the way his cheekbones had been more prominent in the soft light of the catacomb crystals than she remembered before, remembered how defined his face had felt beneath her fingertips. Even now, even after feeling the way his muscles moved against her back when he’d rolled them away from the crumbling ceiling of the Western Air Temple that morning, she knew that he still wouldn’t fill out his old armor they way he used to.

Katara was the first to break eye contact with him, in the end, a cord of shame twisting deep in her stomach. She bit her lip, but didn’t say anything. Heartbeats echoed tensely around her, but then the silence was shattered by four simultaneous pairs of chopsticks clattering against clay bowls. She stared down at her own, sitting on the ground before her.

After several more long moments, Aang broke the silence again. “Wow… camping. It really seems like old times again, doesn’t it?” There was actual levity in his voice, and to his credit it did lighten the mood of the circle.

Zuko picked up a several days’ old mantou bun and broke it in half. “If you really want it to feel like old times, I could—ah—chase you around awhile and try to capture you.” His tone indicated he’d latched onto Aang’s levity and ran with it—and also succeeded in doing so; his smile was sly and looked practically comfortable on his face.

The laughter of the rest of the group flickered around Katara like the flames of the fire, something she saw and heard but couldn’t quite feel either really touch her. She heard a quiet, sarcastic ha, ha leave her mouth, but it sounded distant to her own ears. Zuko’s words were louder in her head—they die from hunger—and she kept remembering the hollows on his face and the darkness beneath his eyes when his uncle had been hurt in the abandoned town of Tu Zin. It was in such sharp contrast to the arrogant, armored Fire Nation Prince that hunted them down for so many months on end, who’d stolen her mother’s necklace and used her for bait, who’d attacked Suki’s home without thought, and it wrenched something within her chest.

On her right, Sokka made a toast to Zuko that was drowned out by a rushing sound in her ears. How dare Zuko make her feel ashamed in her own thoughts when he’d done so many horrible things to them. A scowl threatened to drag the line of her mouth downward. Being a refugee and a lowly teashop assistant served him right after all he’d done in his pursuit of Aang—and it hadn’t even humbled him; after all, he’d turned on them again in the catacombs, and while she spent exhausting days bringing Aang back from the edge of death, he went home as a celebrated hero. All Katara seemed to do was lose and lose—her mother, her people, her heritage, her father, nearly the Avatar himself—and all Zuko seemed to do was win and win, despite it all. All the Fire Nation did was win and win and take and destroy. Her jaw started to hurt, and Katara realized she was clenching her teeth together tight as a vice.

His voice cut through the rush in her ears like a blade. “I’m touched. I don’t deserve this.” She could almost hear his face fall, that self-deprecation she’d seen in him bubbling up again.

Something in her snapped. “Yeah,” Katara said, gaze shifting sharp from her bowl to him. “No kidding.”

She couldn’t stand to be here anymore, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, the light from the fire he’d made casting shadows about her, his golden gaze wondering at her and searching her face, his pulse insistent in the pad of her thumb. Like she had walked away from him teaching bending to Aang back at the temple, now too she rose in fluid anger and stalked off into the night.

The camp was a decent ways behind her when she heard the roll of waves with her own ears. She’d felt it pulling her, especially with the moon so close to full, and followed it until she reached the edge of a grassy cliff and perched on a rock there. It calmed her a little, the salt and the sea and the moon, allowed her space to breathe away from the smoke and heat and steady pulse that was Zuko.

He was infuriating.

It wasn’t that she even thought he was still trying to capture the Avatar; at this point, Katara was more than willing to concede she’d been wrong about that, after the way he’d fought against his sister earlier. He’d helped Sokka find and bring back their father with nothing to gain and virtually everything to lose if they’d been successfully stopped in doing so. And he’d stepped in, in her absence, and tended to dinner and made sure everyone had something to eat.

Despite chasing them relentlessly for so long, despite stealing her mother’s necklace and trying to use her as bait, despite hiring a bounty hunter to find them, despite playing his part in Aang’s near-death, despite setting a mercenary who could shoot fire from his mind after them, despite burning Toph, now he was with them. Now he was helping train Aang to face his own father, fighting his own sister to protect them, reuniting her family—now he was cooking for them, and unknowingly helping with her usual camp duties, and joking with them, and smiling so disarmingly—

Heat rose unbidden in Katara’s cheeks and she glared out across the ocean. She was furious with him, and it made her even angrier that she wasn’t quite sure why. She told herself over and over it was because she didn’t want to get to know him better, she didn’t want to let him get closer—not again—but still she found herself drawn to him, to watching him, to wanting to submerge herself in the cadence of his pulse and feel just how warm it could be.

The desire to do that was even stronger with the waxing of the moon, only a few nights away from being at its fullest, and Katara worried her lip in thought over it.

So lost was she in thought, so strong and close the push and pull of the moon and the ocean tides, she didn’t sense Zuko approaching her until he was nearly upon her. His presence stoked the directionless, confused anger in her and she scowled, rising from her rock and stalking further out along the cliff’s edge.

“This isn’t fair.” His voice rang out, rough against the salt air. “Everyone else seems to trust me now—what is it with you?”

The sincerity of his words slithered into the cracks she thought she’d sealed up, and the hurt in them shook something that was pulled taut in her stomach.

It made her even angrier.

Furious, she turned to face him. “Oh—everyone trusts you now?” A hand came up and pressed hard into her chest, over her hammering heart. “I was the first person to trust you, remember? Back in Ba Sing Se?” Katara jabbed a finger out across the endless ocean. “And you turned around and betrayed me. Betrayed all of us!”

Her anger felt good, felt strong. It felt like a layer of ice she was constructing around her, between them, that not even his impossible heat could breach. A desperate part of her hoped the words she flung at him stung and opened up fractures inside him. Zuko closed his eyes against her onslaught, mouth twisting in a grimace.

To her surprise, though, he lifted his eyes to meet hers again, his gaze determined and focused.

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

“You really want to know?” A thousand things ran through her mind in an instant, and she spat out the first ones that formed as she neared him again. “Hmm, maybe you could reconquer Ba Sing Se in the name of the Earth King.” No, that wasn’t enough, a vicious voice whispered in her mind. Her heart thudded against her ribcage like a trapped beast and she was close enough now to felt the heat emanating off of him. Her thumbs throbbed and ached, but she ignored them, her face mere inches away from his.

“Or, I know! You could bring my mother back!” She barely even noticed the slightly feverish tone upon which her voice hitched.

Katara didn’t know why she said it—of course no one could bring her mother back; but it seemed so fitting, to thrust such an impossible task upon Zuko. In the sparse seconds after her demand, she felt giddy and lightheaded, the ocean pulling at her bones at her back, the boy before her pulling at her blood. Caught between the two of them, Zuko’s eyes searched hers, fleetingly, their normally vibrant gold leeched pale as platinum in the moonlight.

Not giving him any kind of chance to respond to her, Katara shouldered past him, the echoes of her heartbeat filling up her entire chest and throat until there was no space left at all, and left him alone on the cliffside.

She blatantly ignored the others when she got back to the camp, not even bothering to say goodnight to any of them before vanishing inside her tent. Everything was seething inside her—the memories of her mother, dredged up and raw still after so much time; fury toward the Nation that had torn her life to shreds, that had torn so many lives to shreds; frustration and confusion and she wasn’t sure what all else at Zuko; the pounding of her blood in her ears, in time with the pounding of the waves upon the rocky surf.

The ground was hard beneath her thin bedroll, and she lay awake for some time, staring up into the loosely woven darkness of her tent, feeling the pull of the moon and the ocean and willing the rhythm of them to lull her to sleep.

She was starting to descend into the waiting fog of dreams, finally, when she felt a warmth spread through her hands, and distantly heard a quiet sigh outside her tent. Zuko, she thought, dimly, the recognition lazily adrift as flotsam floating away from the shores of waking. His name seemed to summon forth to her senses the cadence of his heartbeat just beyond the cloth boundary of the tent walls, and it was that steadiness that finally soothed her to sleep.

[violets-silence]

Accepted

I drew a little art for this earlier, but I have a desperate need to write this out in its entirety. Victoria belongs to @freaky-fan-art and Violet, of course, belongs to me.

Did you know that growing up as a princess was extremely stressful? No, it’s not the fact that your mother would want you to be included in everything political, or the fact that you’d constantly meet new people despite the crippling fear that you were dissapointing them with your bland looks. It wasn’t even the fact that you would always be looking at your tablet, never at the leaders themselves, because you needed to understand what the fuck was going on. 

It was, instead, the pressure that was put on you by the Queen. 

Violet lived with this pressure day to day, for years. Ever since her mother had convinced her dad to move back to Mewni when Violet was 6, things hadn’t exactly been as fun as they had been back at Echo Creek.

At Echo Creek, a large portion of the citizens actually used ASL to speak. They didn’t stare at Violet whenever she came by despite her strange clothes, and the fact that one of her ears was horribly scarred on the innings of it. They didn’t stare when she opened a portal before them to rush off into a new dimension because she would’ve panicked by how many people were there. 

At Echo Creek, Violet’s grandparents were likely resting, getting older. They must’ve gone completely grey in Violet’s absence. Their skin was likely wrinkled, their eyes still shining.

Her uncle Marco would be waiting, cookies at the ready, prepared to catch her as she would jump on him to give him the biggest hug as they waited for the next batch of cookies were ready so that they could eat themselves sick. 

But in Mewni, the warmth Violet felt wasn’t there. Everywhere she turned was dark, jagged, and strange eyes stared at her. She was constantly in and out of fittings and manner classes. Her back hand was red and had healing blisters from when she couldn’t properly pick up a teacup until she was close to tears and ready to just throw the cup to the ground out of frustration. 

In Mewni, her parents offered no cookies, no hugs. They kept their backs straight, their jaws firm, and told Violet that she couldn’t keep silent all the time; she would have to give up her ‘phase’ of silence someday. 

Violet was sure that maybe her mom would’ve gotten her; she was a teenager once too, and from the stories Eclipsa whispered into Violets head, she and Star ‘acted so much alike’.  The thought made Violet’s lips pucker. 

It was an easy choice for Violet when she turned 18. She had gone behind her parents backs, obtaining a college application form and filling it out. She found her own documents easily, and managed to get the application turned in with little to no fuss. 

Despite this, her hands kept tapping the table. She was nervous. 

Violet didn’t even notice that Victoria had stopped signing, instead favoring to watch Violet tap the table and stare a hole into the tablecloth. 

Vio was startled when a slender hand reached over and grabbed her own, getting her attention. She looked up and found three eyes staring at her, amusement dancing in them. 

“Excited?” Victoria signed, a smile playing on her lips. 

“More like.. nervous?” Violet shook her head, biting her lip. “what if Mom finds out before I do? She’d never let me go.”

Victorias smile drifted ever so slightly, before she squeezed Violets hand. 

“You’ll get in.” she smiled. “I know you can.” 

Violet relaxed, although barely, and asked if Victoria could start her story over; after all, it was unfair that Violet hadn’t been listening to her, and now was giving her her full attention. 

The weeks passed, leaving Violet a nervous wreck. She would constantly sneak out of her room, taking her wand with her into the too-empty woods. She heard stories of millions of creatures living here; she wondered where they were now. 

Then, three weeks to the day, Violet received a letter. 

It was unlike Violet to not mirror call, or to send notes to Victoria. While she had admitted that she felt annoying while she did these, she wanted Victoria to know that she was kept in mind at most times of the day, and that Violet felt the need to show and share her affection.

So for a full day to nearly pass, and Violet hadn’t even sent a small note... well... it was worrying. 

Victoria wandered the halls of her home, musing on kingdom related manners, and coming back to the issue of the missing Violet. What could’ve happened to her?

This has only happened three times in the 4-5 years they’d known each other. The first was during a doctors visit that lasted two weeks, another was when Violet got ensnared in her own spell, and the last was when Violet was going to get a haircut and had been deeply afraid to even look at the result, let alone show Victoria.

So that meant she was either perfectly fine, or in dire conditions. 

Victoria was so deep in thought, she didn’t realize she was hearing footsteps. They grew louder, finally catching her attention before she turned, just barely catching Violet into her arms before the smaller wrapped her arms and legs around her, face burying into her neck as Violet’s shoulders shook. 

Victoria was worried; was Violet crying? It felt as if she was. 

It took a good five minutes for Violet to sign to Victoria what happened; 

Violet had gotten home, found the letter first, and..... she got accepted.

The genuine smile on Violets face could melt even those with cold hearts. Happy tears were falling down her face as she hiccuped and sobbed, finally being able to get away from the abusive nature of Mewni and to be closer to actual family. 

Victoria decided to sit in a plush chair, seeing Violet make the same symbols ovoer and over. 

She was saying “I’m accepted! I’m going home!”

For a brief second, her excitment revolved around that Violet got into school, and being able to celebrate with her.